Jonathon Redding
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: A series of grisly murders and a string of strange names leads Jane and the crew to the 'University of California, Berkeley', where a figure out of history awaits them...  Dedicated to Yaba, the encourager!
1. Chapter 1

_**Jonathon Redding**_

_Chapter 1_

"Money."

The man walked past.

"Money"

The man walked past.

"Children."

The woman walked past.

"Sex."

The man walked past.

"Sex."

The woman walked past.

"Sex."

The man walked past.

"_Oooh_. Shoes…"

Teresa Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Shoes, Jane? _Shoes?"_

He nodded, smiling. "Oh yes, shoes. Most definitely."

"That one idolizes shoes…?"

"Sure," said Patrick Jane and he threw her a sideways glance. "It's surprising the variety of things that become idols in peoples' lives. See there, Shoe-Queen? The style is new, only four months off of the Milan runway, and it is obviously difficult for her to walk in them, but still, she insists on buying them and wearing them to and from work. You can tell by the wear on her heels. Her shoes are a status symbol." He leaned forward as he watched the woman disappear down the sidewalk. "It's quite a fascinating

phenomenon…"

She watched him as he watched the woman, and quickly wondered whether it was really the shoes that fascinated him. "So you say everyone has idols?"

"Yep." His ankle bounced now as his eyes scanned the streets and he took a bite of his burrito. "Everyone."

Lisbon grinned at him, a lop-sided grin that tugged into one cheek. "Okay Dr. Freud. What's mine?"

Now he turned to look at her, and she marveled at his expression. She could have just offered him iced cream or a trip for two to Disneyland. He jabbed his burrito at her.

"What's the first thing you think about in the morning? _Ah ah!_ Don't tell me, just think about it…"

"Oh, come _on…"_

"Yes, _do _come on. Think, woman, think!"

She closed her eyes, pursed her lips as she thought. "Hmm…"

"Good. Very good. Now, the last thing you think about before sleep…"

She furrowed her brow. It was the same.

"Aha." He sat back, grinning. "Justice. Your idol is justice."

Her mouth hung open a moment. "No," she lied quickly. "Not at all."

He raised his brows.

She lowered hers. "Okay. Maybe you're right. But justice? Justice is an idol?"

"Oh sure. It doesn't have to be something you 'worship' necessarily, but something that drives you, motivates you, consumes you. Something important enough to think about when you drift off to sleep at night and when you first wake up in the morning. Something that defines you above all else and you think about it whenever you can."

"Hm." She thought about that. "What's yours?"

His smile changed, but only slightly.

"Ah," she said, and they sat for a long while afterwards, watching the crowds and saying nothing for some time.

It was a beautiful day in Old Town, Sacramento, sunny but not too hot, a slight breeze blowing in from the river, the smell of kettle corn and water, music from a busker playing Bach on a flute by the train. Only a few tourists were wandering this part of the historic district at this time of day. It was lunch, her treat, and they sat on a bench under a tree, eating burritos and watching people.

She stole a glance at him when he wasn't looking. He was leaning back against the bench, ankle bouncing, smile fixed as his eyes searched the crowds for diversion. Not only fixed, but forced, and she knew the last few months had been taking a toll on him. He was sleeping in the attic/storage room of the CBI headquarters. He had been late for work repeatedly. He had actually made a few mistakes. The strain was beginning to affect him and she wondered how long he would continue to pretend he was okay when everyone around him knew differently. With Jane, there were no neat little packages. It was bound to get very messy. It was just a matter of time.

She wouldn't say anything. Time was the one thing he needed. She could at least give him that.

Her phone buzzed.

"House."

A woman walked by.

She rolled her eyes again as she raised the phone to her ear. "Lisbon. Yeah? Oh boy. Oh _fun._ Where? Okay."

"Shih Tzu. No, no, Italian Greyhound…"

Two men walked by.

"Okay, we're on our way." She folded the phone and rose to her feet. He did not. He was still watching people. "Are you coming?"

"Honestly Lisbon, can anything be more interesting than this?"

"Stabbing in _Big Sur."_

He sat for a moment, considering.

"_Now,_ Jane." 

He stuffed the rest of the burrito in his mouth, wiped his hands on his trousers and rose to his feet alongside her. "Stabbing," he said with his mouth full. "Visceral crime. Heart over head. The idol could be love."

She stared at him. "The body was eviscerated."

"Aah." He made a face, swallowed, rocked back on his heels. "Justice, then."

"Why Justice?"

"Evisceration. That's something you would do."

She rolled her eyes one last time and turned toward the sidewalk. He slipped his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and followed.

"""""""""""""""""""""""

_Big Sur_ is an amazing place. A 'High Noon' showdown between the Santa Lucia Mountains and the Pacific Ocean. Big waters, bigger cliffs, and surf. There is also a legendary highway that hugs the shoreline like a wooed lover, with drops of over 300 feet in some places, remarkable sandy beaches in others. Then it peels away like a spurned lover into long stretches of redwood and pine that threaten to hide the sun for days. Yes, truly, _Big Sur_ is an amazing place.

It was into one of these stretches of redwood and pine that they drove, into the parking lot of an old motel called _the Ragged Branch_. It was a log and plank style, with timberframe construction and stained glass hanging in the windows. Wreaths adorned the large double doors, along with a handpainted sign that read "Gallery Left" and "Lobby Right". It clearly thought of itself as an artisan's haven, boasting an organic restaurant, a gift shop and many forest walks that featured local sculptures tucked in between ancient trees and flashes of ocean. As she stepped out of the SUV, Lisbon could understand the fascination of this place for tourists and environmentalists alike. It was beautiful.

If only it weren't for the police cars and yellow tape obstructing the views.

An officer met them at the door, tipped his wide-brimmed hat in greeting.

"Deputy Sergeant Cliff Miller. You folks CBI?"

She flashed her badge. "Agents Teresa Lisbon, Kimball Cho, Wayne Rigsby." The men shook hands. "And our consultant, Patrick Jane." Jane threw a little wave but did not shake. Lisbon pursed her lips. Jane rarely shook. "Forensics here?"

"Yes ma'am. This way." He turned away from the motel, began ambling toward one of the many forest trails. They followed, Lisbon falling in step beside him, Cho and Rigsby behind. Several steps behind them all, Jane was strolling, hands in pockets, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the forest.

"Chapman Aniston. 41 years old. Investment banker from _Cambria_, a town down the way. A hiker found his body early this morning. Still shook up about it. It's not pretty."

Cho grunted. "They have investment bankers in _Cambria?"_

Rigsby grinned.

Lisbon ignored him. "And why were we called in, Deputy Sergeant?" The trail had begun to go down, natural stone steps leading them into a quiet gorge flanked by ferns, redwood and yellow tape.

"Ah, well ma'am, first we thought it might be that killer, Red John, the way the body was cut up and all…"

She found her foot hesitated a second before setting down. "But…?"

"The Forensics guy said no. Said it didn't match the pattern. Said there was not enough cuts and no 'smiley face', or something like that."

She sent out invisible feelers, found Jane still strolling somewhere behind, could sense his change in body language, the subtle charge of electricity that kept them always on their toes. "Was Mr. Aniston a guest at the motel?"

"Yes ma'am. Apparently he was coming home from a seminar in Monterey and decided to stay the night. The _Ragged Branch_ is good for that kinda thing."

"Was he alone?" Rigsby now. They were getting winded. The trek down was steep, the humidity high.

"Looks like it. There were no other guests registered in his room."

"Any 'unregistered' guests?"

"The _Ragged Branch_ isn't that kind of place."

"The hiker who found him," It was Cho again. Lisbon was impressed. None of them were taking notes. Just asking questions and listening. "Was he a guest too?"

"Yes sir. Douglas Rayer. He's a college student from Berkeley, just taking a few days, enjoying the countryside. Which brings me to the second reason we called you. This area is technically within the boundaries of a state park."

She nodded. _Los Padres National Forest_. It made sense.

"Does he still have his wallet?"

"Yes, ma'am. Doesn't look like anything was taken, not from his room, not from his person."

"Forensics swept the room?"

"Not yet, ma'am."

"Married?" Rigsby again.

"Yessir. 14 years, two kids. The wife's been notified. She's on her way up."

"What was his name again?"

They all turned. It was Jane, hands deep in the pockets of his grey jacket, still strolling, looking for all the world like he was in a library or a museum, not hiking down a lush forested gorge toward an eviscerated investment banker.

"What was that, sir?" called Miller.

"Oh, his name. What was the dead man's name?"

"Chapman Aniston. Why?"

The consultant had ambled up beside them now. "That's an unusual name, yeh?"

Lisbon pouted. It was an unusual question. "Not any more so than 'Tollman Bunting', or 'Ellis Mars'…"

"Indeed." He nodded, eyes dancing at the memories.

"You have something?"

"Oh, no." And he smiled like the sun. "Absolutely not."

She shook her head and pushed off, deeper still into the lush forested gorge and the body of the eviscerated investment banker.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Chapman Aniston lay against the trunk of a large redwood, mouth and eyes open and dry. He was a big man, square-shouldered and barrel-chested and he looked like he could have been a quarterback in his early days. Thinning hair, jeans, polo, windbreaker. His throat was bloody, with several obviously deep slash wounds and his middle was a riot of red, darker red and pink. Even more disturbing was the fact that his intestines had been entirely removed and placed carefully on his shoulder.

A familiar shape was hunched over the body, plucking at samples and dipping them in tubes. Lisbon sighed.

"Hey Brett," she said, and Brett Partridge, Forensic Specialist, turned toward her voice.

"_You?"_ Partridge grumbled, his eyes flicking across the faces, seeming to search for one in particular. "I didn't tell them to call you. I never said this was Red John."

"It's a state park, Brett."

There was a heartbeat of hesitation. "I knew that." And the lanky man with the lanky hair rose to his feet, hands covered in white latex and blood. "Wanna see?"

"Thanks." And she stepped in close, snapping on while gloves of her own, Cho and Rigsby hovering like shadows. Naturally, Jane stayed away, only glancing over from time to time. Bodies never interested him much.

Partridge reached for the man's throat.

"Two slices, here… and here. Pretty good, pretty deep. Pretty much killed him before all the fun began."

"I guess that's a blessing," muttered Rigsby.

"I guess…" muttered Partridge. "Then, he –"

"He?" asked Cho. "You know our killer is a he?"

The specialist shrugged. "Our Mr. Aniston is a pretty big guy. Would be hard for a girl to take him down, even with a blade like this."

"I dunno," mumbled Rigsby. "Some girls are pretty tough…"

"And some big guys are sissies. So the perp slices his throat twice, then takes his blade and makes one real sick incision like this…" And with his customary flair, Brett Partridge flung his hand from one end of the man's abdomen to the other, making a slashing sound as he did so. "And _bam, _instant evisceration!"

They were silent, not sure which was more gruesome, the dead man or the living.

"The intestines are cut perfectly, just below the stomach, right above the rectum. And the whole kit and kaboodle transferred up here, like a pirate with a parrot. Cool, huh?"

"What did he take?" Once again, all heads turned to Patrick Jane, hands still most definitely in pockets, wandering on the perimeter of the scene.

"Excuse me?"

"I say again, what did he take?"

Partridge's eyes narrowed. "What makes you assume the perp took anything, Mr. Jane?"

Jane shrugged. "Just a hunch."

Partridge made an odd motion with his head before bending back down to the slippery pink mass on the shoulder. He began to peel the tissues away with his gloves. "It took me awhile to find it…"

It was the noises, Lisbon realized. They were perhaps the most disturbing. The sickening sucking sounds, the smacking of wet tissue against dry, the quiet squeak of latex moving against flesh, that set her teeth on edge. With a grunt, Partridge pried the intestines apart, careful not to damage them, but allowing them to bounce and slip all over the man's chest.

Deputy Sergeant Miller turned away.

"Perhaps Mr. Jane would like to check this out, make sure I've gotten this right…" He was smiling and it wasn't a pleasant sight. "After all his experience with eviscerated bodies, I'm sure he'll be a big help."

Jane cocked his head at the specialist. His expression was light but he was as tight as a coiled spring.

"Oh, I'm sorry," mocked Partridge. "Did I upset you? I was only talking about your experience with the Red John cases. I wasn't referring to the way he cut up your wife and daughter, or anything. No need to get upset."

"That's enough, Partridge," Lisbon growled but Jane stepped forward, undaunted.

His eyes flicked downwards. "Appendix," he snapped, before his eyes flicked up to the Specialist. "You're a ghoul."

"Now Mr. Jane…"

"You're a pathetic, sad little man and your idol is self."

And with that, he spun on his heel and left the crime scene, disappearing into the shadows cast by hundred-year-old trees.

"I don't have to take that," called Partridge, his voice growing louder and louder as Jane walked away. "I can lodge a complaint. I can make your life miserable, Mr. Jane! Very miserable indeed!"

"Shut up, Brett," snarled Lisbon, and she now rose to her feet, Cho and Rigsby like shadows behind. She turned to them. "Finish up here. I'm going back to the motel."

"Sure, boss," said Cho and he waited for her to be swallowed by the darkness of the trail before turning to Rigsby and Partridge. "An appendix? Who kills a guy for an appendix?"

And they all looked back at Chapman Aniston, the eviscerated investment banker in a lush forest gorge in _Big Sur_, California.

"""""""""""""""""""""""

Patrick Jane sat in the comfort of the 'Lobby Right' of the motel, in a chair made of varnished logs and hunter green stuffing. It was a nice lobby, with large windows, lodge-style lamps, pine swags over a stone mantel. It smelled good, earthy, clean. He could see why people came here. They could leave much behind.

"Hey," came a voice and he looked up to see Teresa Lisbon standing over him.

"I have the motel records," he said, indicating the thin book he held in his hands. "I wanted to check the names of the guests."

She propped her backside on the arm of his chair. "You okay?"

He made a face. _"Meh_. He's a toad."

"He pushes your buttons."

"Well. Good to know the buttons work."

She grinned. "What is it about the name?"

He shrugged, turning his gaze back to the book in his hand. "I don't know, Lisbon. Something is weird."

"Weird?"

He sighed, closed the book, furrowed his brow. "Aniston Chapman."

"Chapman Aniston," she corrected.

"Right." He looked up at her again, smiling to let her know he was okay. "Who names their baby 'Chapman?"

She grinned. "Give me a 'Bob' and be done with it."

"Bob. Fred. Joe. Frank."

"Shut up." She nudged him with her elbow. "Do you want to talk to the guy who found him?"

"The Berkeley guy?"

"The very one."

"Oh yes, let's do. I love Berkeley guys. And girls for that matter. In fact, I love all things Berkeley."

She grinned again and rose from her perch, happy that Jane was her shadow this time. It was a very good feeling.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

Douglas Rayer was a mess.

Apparently, he was under a doctor's care for anxiety disorder, and the events of this morning had done little to improve his condition.

"This is not good for me, man," say Rayer. "Not good for me at all." He rubbed his brow with both hands.

Teresa Lisbon sighed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rayer. We'll be finished as soon as we can."

"I know. But still…" Douglas Rayer was a young man, perhaps 28 years, short, fit, and anxious. He was wearing khaki shorts, a red t-shirt and hiking boots. "Did you see the guts? There was blood and guts everywhere."

"I know, Mr. Rayer. A murder scene can be quite disturbing."

"I can still see it, the eyes, the guts, the blood…" His head snapped up. "Who'd ever think there'd be so much blood?"

She couldn't help but glance at Jane, standing by the door of Douglas Rayer's room, hands in his pockets. He was no help here. She turned back to Rayer.

"Tell me again how you found him."

Rayer took a deep breath, collected his thoughts. "I had a few days off from work so I though I'd take a break, drive down the coast, you know. Have a holiday. I haven't had a holiday in years…"

"You're in post-grad, yeh?" Jane now, detached and curious.

"Um, yeah. I'm in the first year of my Doctorate. It's a rough go, man. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"And what course is it, exactly?"

"Um, psychology. A Ph.D. in Psychology. I didn't get accepted for four years."

"Hm. That's a lot of work."

The young man nodded. "You're telling me."

Teresa Lisbon cleared her throat. "So…this morning…"

"Oh yeah, I was going for a walk…"

"At six o'clock in the morning?"

"Yeah. It's nice at six. You can think at six."

Jane leaned forward. "Otherwise it's too noisy."

Rayer's head snapped up again. "Yeah, man. Too noisy. Too busy. You can't think."

Jane nodded but said nothing. Lisbon growled. He wasn't being helpful.

"So, you're taking a walk at six in the morning and you found Mr. Aniston."

"Yeah, just like that. It was awful. I almost puked."

"Can anyone corroborate your story?"

"Corroborate? What do you mean, corroborate?"

She smiled. "Come on, Mr. Rayer. You are a Psych major. Surely you know what 'corroborate' means."

"Well, yeah. I know what it means, but are you saying, like, I'm a suspect?" He glanced from Lisbon to Jane and back again.

"Everyone's a suspect, Mr. Rayer," Lisbon said sweetly.

"Aw maaan," and the young man ran a hand through his hair. "I don't need this, man. I sure don't need this…"

Lisbon leaned forward now. "Have you given your address to Deputy Sergeant Miller?"

"Yeah," he moaned.

"And there's nothing else you noticed? No one else on the trail, no other hikers, nothing you can remember?"

"To tell you the truth, I probably wouldn't have noticed."

She nodded, glanced at Jane who was frowning.

"Jane?" she asked. "Anything more to add?"

"Are you a reader, Mr. Rayer?"

The young man glanced again between Lisbon and Jane. "Yeah. Sure. I like to read. Why?"

"What are you reading right now?"

"Two psychology texts, um, what else…Oh yeah, "A Brief History of Time", and Bram Stoker's "Dracula"…"

"'Dracula'? Why 'Dracula'?"

"Aw, man. Chicks and vampires. I just can't figure it out."

Lisbon grinned. "Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Rayer. I hope you do well on your dissertation."

Douglas Rayer slapped his hands onto his hair once again. "Don't even talk to me about that. After today, I might just change my major. Go into something easy like pharmacy, or politics or something…"

She rose to her feet and left the young man in his motel room, with Patrick Jane at her heels.

"""""""""""""""""""

Cho and Rigsby had stayed with Partridge until the Forensics team had finished up. Then, a sanitation crew had arrived, along with the coroner, to dispatch the body and clean the trail. It would not do to have _Los Padres National Forest_ littered with yellow tape and blood. The yellow tape was bad for the environment. The blood was bad for business.

Together, the CBI team had questioned all the guests at the motel, and finally the wife of Chapman Aniston once she arrived, and to no one's surprise, had gotten nowhere. He had no enemies, his business was sound, his wife was beside herself with grief. All normal. All as it should be. It seemed the only thing Chapman Aniston was guilty of was having an unusual name.

They gathered in the motel lobby that night, Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby and Jane, munching on organic sandwiches and drinking free trade coffee, discussing the case and lack of leads and general despondency of the group. Jane was uncharacteristically quiet and seemed to busy himself by scribbling on a notepad and frowning.

"Well, this could be a random thing," argued Rigsby. "Aniston seems to be squeaky clean."

"But Forensics says he died at 5:00 in the morning," said Cho. "What is an investment banker doing walking around in a redwood forest at 5 in the morning?"

"A lot of professionals start their day at 5:00," muttered Lisbon. "In bigger centers, it's the only way to beat the traffic, get a jump on your competitors…"

"His wife did say he was into yoga," offered Rigsby. "A walk like that might be a good way to, you know, find a spot."

"Yeah," said Cho. "Sun Salute at dawn is pretty popular. Good to find a nice relaxing place to do it. "

Rigsby looked at him. "You into yoga?"

Cho looked at him. "No."

"'Cause I wouldn't laugh or anything if you did, you know."

Cho stared at him, sipping his coffee.

"I mean, Yoga is pretty cool," Rigsby went on. "You get into all those crazy positions…"

Cho sipped his coffee.

"I tried Tai Chi once. Did you know that? The instructor said I was pretty good. But she was like, 60, and hitting on me like crazy…" Rigsby bit into his sandwich, chewed for a while. "But for 60, I gotta admit, she was pretty hot…"

Lisbon shook her head.

"There's something missing," said Jane finally, looking up at them from his notebooks.

"Missing?"

"Yes. Missing. We need to call Grace."

But he sat, not moving, staring out the big stained glass window. Lisbon sighed and pulled out her phone.

"Hey Grace, Jane wants to talk to you…" She handed him the phone, but he was elsewhere, frowning and thinking and now chewing on the end of the pencil. "Never mind, _I'll _talk to you. Jane, I have Grace on the line. What did you want to ask her?"

"Ask her…"

"Yes?"

He said nothing for some time.

"Jane…?"

Finally, he turned to them. "This is not the first victim. I want her to see if there is another case that fits this pattern. Not Red John, and not long ago. Recent. Very recent, a week, two weeks max."

Lisbon stared at him. "Another murder in a state park in California?"

"Another evisceration. Throat wounds and evisceration. And recent. Tell her to look for that."

She glanced at Cho and Rigsby. Cho stared into his coffee. Rigsby raised his brows.

So she relayed the request to Grace Van Pelt, the rookie left behind in Sacramento who was a shark on the computer, and folded her phone to silence.

"You think Chapman Aniston is not the first vic?"

Jane shook his head.

"You think this is the work of a serial killer?"

Jane nodded his head.

"Why do you think that, Jane?"

"I don't know. But it has something to do with his name."

She sighed.

And she knew they were not going to get any sleep tonight, and somehow there was no justice in that.

_End of Chapter 1_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Jonathon Redding**_

_Chapter 2_

"Would you care for a coffee, dear?"

She awoke to the wonderful smells of freshly ground coffee, perfume, pine and Patrick Jane.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, to find the perfume. An older woman with a long, grey braid and kind eyes holding out a cup, full to brimming with coffee. It set her mouth watering immediately.

"Yes," she smiled, reaching for it. "Thank you so much." And while she sipped, she glanced around, trying to orient herself to her surroundings.

She was sitting in a large, over-stuffed chair in the middle of the lobby in the _Ragged Branch _motel in _Los Padres National Forest._ It was dawning and sunlight was streaming in through large windows of stained glass. They had talked well into the night and she had obviously fallen asleep at some point, for Jane's jacket was draped over her like a blanket. It smelled like him, clean like soap and pine needles and big water. It made her feel strangely warm yet vulnerable at the same time, so carefully, she plucked the jacket, laid it across the arm of the chair and moved to sit up.

"You poor things," the woman was saying. "What a job you have. You could have taken a room, you know…"

The rest of her team were sound asleep.

Cho, in a chair like her, but by the stone fireplace, still in his dark suit and looking for all the world like he had just nodded off. Rigsby, on the other hand, was sprawled, face-down, on the room's only couch, snoring softly, his phone still clutched in one hand. And Jane…

She sat forward, looking for him.

The older woman nudged her arm, pointed to a far corner and smiled.

He sat at a pine desk under the windows, sleeves rolled up, waist-coat open, head down in his arms. There was a pile of coffee cups on the desk beside him, almost rivaling the crunched up balls of paper at his feet.

"He was up all night, that one was. Working on some puzzle. Something to do with letters or words, I suspect. I just kept bringing him coffee and he just kept drinking it. He's a chatty one, he is. A real charmer…"

Teresa Lisbon smiled too and rose to her feet. She suppressed a yawn, looked around the lobby, which, other than her team, was empty. She turned back to the woman. "Is there a restaurant nearby? We'll need to get some breakfast…"

"Kitchen here opens at 7:00, but I'll make an exception for you and your men."

_Your men_.

"Thanks."

Still smiling, the woman turned to leave. Lisbon downed the last of her coffee before strolling quietly to where Jane was sleeping. She wondered how long he had been up, and knelt to retrieve one of the paper balls, uncrumpling it slowly as to make little sound.

_Chapman Aniston._

_Aniston Chapman._

_Ani stan chap man_

_c h a a a p m n n n i s t o_

_A stan man_

_I am stan_

_At non champions _

_In a camp at shonn _

And on and on it went. In English, Spanish, German and something she assumed was Latin. She studied the floor, all the crumpled balls of paper. She studied the desk, all the cups of coffee. Something about the name, he had said. She shook her head. He was relentless.

Her phone buzzed, and in the stillness of the morning, it was loud. Jane woke up rather abruptly. He glanced around, rubbed his face with his hands, and smiled up at her, sleepily. He looked like a little boy. She smiled back and put the phone to her ear.

"Hey, good morning, Grace. Yeah, yeah, that's right…" Her green eyes flashed at him, and he sat up a little straighter. "Where? When?"

Cho began to stir.

"Alright. Send me the details. Contact the _Alameda_ PD. Let them know we're coming. Good work, Grace."

From the couch, Rigsby yawned.

She folded her phone, slipped it back into her pocket. Jane was watching her, head cocked, hair in complete disarray. She resisted the urge to pat it down.

"Well?" he asked, blinking. _"Well?"_

"Well," she answered. "You may be right."

"Naturally."

She grit her teeth.

"Ten days ago, a trucker was found outside _Alameda._ Throat slashed twice, severe abdominal mutilation."

"His name? His name? What was his name, woman."

"Nick Polley. Lives in Sutterville. Drives for _EMP Trucking."_

"Nick Polley." Jane sat back, running the name over his tongue. "Nick Polley, Nick Polley…"

She knew it was pointless. She turned back to the others. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. Time to head to the Bay."

"""""""""""""""""""""""

The drive to _Alameda_ was a good three hours, and this time, she let Cho drive. Rigsby took shotgun, and she sat behind him, as she was tired. Jane, naturally, was stretched out on his back in the rear seat, knees up, scribbling.

She didn't have to ask. It was 'Nick Polley', in as many combinations and variations as he could find.

Yes, relentless.

"I mean, I think you'd be great at yoga." Rigsby was saying as he munched on one of the _Ragged Branch's_ organic cranberry flax cookies. "You look like you're flexible. That's probably what you need, right? Flexibility?"

Cho gripped the steering wheel. "I wouldn't know."

"Grace does yoga. She's_ really_ flexible. It was amazing the positions she could get into! Oh boy, just amazing," and he snorted with laughter, which he abruptly stopped when a crumpled up piece of paper struck him in the side of the head. Cleared his throat. "In the gym, I mean. The positions she could get into…in the gym."

"You should shut up now," said Cho.

"Yeah," said Rigsby. "I'll shut up now."

Jane sighed and finally rolled up to sitting. He shoved the pencil behind his ear.

Lisbon threw him a glance. "No luck?"

"Meh. It'll come. I just hate the waiting." And he grinned at her.

She shrugged. "It may have nothing to do with the names at all."

"Oh no. It does. It truly does. But maybe not in this way. There are many, many ways you can play with a name." He sighed again and glanced at the paper balls rolling about on the floor of the SUV. "What did you think of the student?"

"Berkeley guy?"

"Yeh. Him."

She pouted. "Normal, I guess. People are usually shook up when they find something like that. Why?"

"He was off."

"He was shook up."

"He was off." And he seemed about to leave it at that, but changed his mind. "No, no. He was stupid. He was a stupid student."

She smirked. "Not everyone is as smart as you are, Jane."

"_No_ one is as smart as I am, Lisbon. But that's not the point. The point is that in order to pursue your Ph.D. in Psychology, you have to be a little more on the ball. You don't read Hawking's _"A Brief History of Time"_ and talk like a stoner. At least not without a great soundtrack. That's an oxymoron."

"I tried to read that once," muttered Cho as he steered their way into the heart of the urban sprawl that was _San Francisco, Oakland _and_ Alameda._ "It was too long."

Rigsby grinned. "Not Brief enough."

"Exactly."

Jane went on. "And you don't read Stoker's _'Dracula'_ to figure out 'chicks'."

"You don't?" asked Rigsby, crestfallen. He looked at Cho.

Cho shrugged. "Sorry."

Jane sat back, shaking his head. "We were being played."

"He checked out, Jane. Douglas Rayer is working on his PhD in Psych at Berkeley. Miller made the call himself."

He folded his arms across his chest, puzzling.

Lisbon ground her teeth. When he analyzed things like that, they sounded reasonable. And when he grew quiet like this, he was usually right. "I'll call Grace. Get her to dig a little deeper."

Jane snatched his pencil and laid back down on the seat. "How do you spell that again? Rayer? R. A. Y. E. R.? Douglas Rayer. A loud year… glad years…" and he began to mumble and mutter all over again.

She sighed and grabbed her phone.

"""""""""""""""""""""""

The _Alameda Department of Violent Crimes_ was just over the Park Street Bridge. _Alameda_ was an island city, once a former navy base, now boasting a thriving economy and active sporting life, including the training camp for the Oakland Raiders as well as a yachting community that is world-renowned. The station itself was old, almost Victorian in appearance, but then again, that was nothing new. 'Victorian' was the key word in _Alameda,_ with many hundred year old homes dating back before the Quake of 1906.

It was foggy when they rolled in, but then again, there was nothing new in that either. _Alameda _was on the Bay of San Francisco and fog came with the territory. In fact, it all conspired to make the afternoon look like something out of 19th century London, the fog, the Victorian styles, and murder.

They found the officer in charge at his desk, coffee on one side, donut on the other.

"Det. Sergeant Nelson?"

Nelson didn't look up from his desk. "Yeah."

Lisbon glanced at the others waiting patiently, Jane strolling some distance behind. She sighed.

"Agent Teresa Lisbon, CBI."

Now he did look up. He was a stocky man with dark moustache and darker circles under his eyes. He studied her for a moment, then the others before rising to his feet. "CBI, huh? You here about the Polley case?"

"Yes. We'd just like to look into it briefly. It might be connected to another case we got yesterday morning."

He grunted, but seemed to be thinking. "Sure. You want hard copy?"

"Oh yes please," sang Jane as he ambled up toward them, hands in pockets. "Hard copy is very good. Makes me feel authentic. Solid. You know. Real. I struggle sometimes. E-this. E-that. What ever happened to good old fashioned pen and ink?" And he smiled.

The detective scowled. "Take Interrogation Room 2, over there. I'll have what we got brought up."

"Oh and by the way," added Jane, still smiling. "Do you remember the name of the man or woman who found the body, assuming it _was_ a man or a woman?"

Nelson stared at him. "No," he said. "I don't."

"But it will be in the file, yeh?"

"Yeah. It'll be in the file…"

"The real, solid paper file? On paper? That file?"

"Uh, yeah." And he gave Lisbon a look that spoke volumes before turning and stomping off, shaking his head and muttering.

Lisbon spun on her heel and swatted Jane with her palm.

"You are not being helpful!" she growled.

He held up his hands in protest. "Just keepin' it real."

Cho and Rigsby grinned, but their boss did not, and together the team headed into the quiet, well-lit chamber that was Interrogation Room 2.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Coffee and stale donuts were brought as well as 'real, solid paperwork', and all three were snatched in anticipation and spread across the metal table. Jane promptly shuffled past all the crime scene photos, and Lisbon knew what he was looking for. He grabbed one sheet in particular, let the rest of the papers drop to the floor. They scattered like rice at a wedding. He studied the sheet, frowned, picked up all the papers that had fallen on the floor. Rifled through them like a deck of cards. Pulled a second sheet from the pile, dropped the rest to the floor once again. He grabbed a metal chair, pulled his pencil from behind his ear and began to scribble.

"What the hell you think you're doing, pal?" growled Nelson. "Those are official police documents."

"Jane," she sighed. "You can't do that. It's not a Sudoku."

"Sorry." He wasn't. "Rodger Saulay. 29 year old assistant manager at the _Alameda_ Super MegaMart."

"Yes?"

"The man who found Nick Polley's body. Rodger Saulay. _Rodger._ Who spells Roger R O D G E R?"

Nelson stared at him. "His mamma, that's who."

"You're right," Cho looked up now, frowning. "It's not normally spelled that way."

"Not for first names. It's a variant, granted, but an uncommon one."

"And your last name's a_ girl's_ name," grunted Nelson.

"But a correctly spelled girl's name." Jane held up two files. "This incident report says Roger. R O G E R. But this one…this one says Rodger. R O D G E R."

Nelson looked at Lisbon. "So?"

"Really?" asked Jane. "On official police documents? Isn't it important to make sure you get the right information, the correct information? And who's the warrant for, Rodger Saulay or Roger Saulay? I mean, people get off on technicalities all the time. Wouldn't this be considered a technicality?"

"This guy is a nut case. We got a dead man and he's playing scrabble."

Lisbon turned to the detective. "And Saulay checked out? He is who he says he is?"

"Yes. Rodger Saulay is Rodger Saulay. This ain't rocket science."

The consultant was anything if not insistent. "And you talked to Mr. Rodger Saulay of the _Alameda_ Super MegaMart, yeh?"

"Yeah."

"You personally?"

"Yeah. Me personally. The guy was pretty shook up."

_Shook up._ Jane sat up. Lisbon's heart sank.

"Young, short, fit? Surfer dude type?" pressed Jane.

"Yeah. A regular guy."

"What does he read?"

Nelson looked about to explode. "How the hell should I know? I never asked."

"Oh you should. You really should." And he glanced at Lisbon. He could fill a book with his eyes. She stepped forward.

"Det. Sergeant Nelson, we might need to talk to Mr. Saulay. Would you arrange that?"

Nelson rolled his eyes but shrugged. "Sure. Anything to keep Elmo here from scribbling on official police records."

Jane rose to his feet. "Perhaps Ernie and Bert can take a drive up to the Berkeley Campus on Sesame Street to talk to the other young, short, fit surfer dude type who reads Hawking and Stoker whilst taking his PhD in Psychology and lying to police officers." He turned to Lisbon, expression flat. "Zoe, I think I'll wait in the car."

And he strode out of the interrogation room, taking most of the air with him.

Lisbon sighed once again before reaching for the sheet on Rodger Saulay. He had circled the name, rearranged the letters.

"D O U G L A S R A Y E R."

She shook her head and followed him out.

"""""""""""""""""""""""

It was late afternoon when Cho and Rigsby knocked on the door of Douglas Rayer, the 28 yr old PhD in Psychology student at Berkeley University. It was a small apartment above a convenience store, and Rigsby rang the bell several times. A buzzer buzzed them up.

"So," he said as they began the set of stairs to the apartment. "I still don't get it. Why do you get to be Ernie?"

"We've been through this before," sighed Cho. "Ernie is short, stocky, smart and Asian. Bert is tall, pointy-headed, likes pigeons and turtlenecks. It's a no-brainer."

"Oh, yeah…"

They rapped at the door. Rigsby turned to him.

"Ernie is Asian?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Cool."

The door opened a crack, and a head peeked out. "Yes, officers? Can I help?"

Rigsby held up his badge. "We'd like to speak to Douglas Rayer, please."

"Yes, what's this about, officers?"

"Mr. Rayer? " asked Cho, now. "Mr. Douglas Rayer?"

"Yes, that's me."

They exchanged glances.

Douglas Rayer was in his fifties, balding with a long grey ponytail, hippie glasses and a goatee.

But in his hands was a copy of Stephen Hawkings' _"A Brief History of Time."_

""""""""""""""""""""""

It was late afternoon when they knocked on the door of Rodger Saulay, the 29 yr old assistant manager of the _Alameda _Super MegaMart. It was a neat row house in a quiet low income district of the city, and Det. Sergeant Nelson rang the bell several times before the door opened. A small plump woman in sweatpants stood on the other side.

She peered at them from the doorway. "Yes?" It sounded like two syllables. _Yeh-ess?_

Nelson held out his badge. "_Alameda_ PD, ma'am. Is Mr. Saulay available?"

"Yes?" She hugged the door a little tighter.

"It seems we need just a little more information. Nothing serious."

Her dark eyes glanced from the badge, to the man, to the CBI agent at his side, and Lisbon found herself tensing. Her Glock was at her hip. Always.

"_More_ information? What you talkin' about, _more_ information?"

Nelson shifted. "Uh, just about the murder, ma'am. What he saw, where he—"

"Murder? Murder? Roger don't know nothin' 'bout no murder!" She turned her head into the room behind her. "_Roger! Roger, police!"_

The Glock was in her hand before she knew it, and she caught the glint of dark metal in Nelson's. Wide-eyed, Jane had begun to back down the steps.

"What's this about?" Another head popped into the doorway. "What? _Guns?"_ And both Roger Saulay and the plump little woman raised their hands in terror.

There was silence for a moment as the realization set in.

"Mr. Saulay," began Lisbon. "Mr. Roger Saulay?"

"Y-yes ma'am, that's me."

"And you're an assistant manager at the _Alameda_ Super MegaMart?"

"Y-yes, ma'am. One of them, ma'am." Hands still in the air.

She slid her eyes to Nelson. He was shaking his head.

"I don't understand. This is not the man I interviewed. This is not the man…"

For this Roger Saulay was in his forties, tall, slim, dark and balding. Not a trace of Berkeley or surf on him, not one bit.

"Excuse me, Roger…" It was Jane, smiling up from the street. "But how do you spell your first name?"

"Uh, Uh…Is that what you come here for? To ask me that?" Hands still in the air.

"No," said Lisbon.

"Yes," said Jane. "How do you spell it?"

"Um, R O G E R. Like usual, I expect."

Jane beamed. "One more question, if I may?"

"Uh, sure. I guess…"

"Have you ever read Bram Stoker's '_Dracula' _or_ 'A Brief History of Time' _by Stephen Hawking?_"_

"Bram _Who's _Draca-_What?"_

"Never mind. Thank you, Roger. Have a lovely night."

And he began to backpeddle to the SUV. Nelson turned to Lisbon. "That was not the man I interviewed. I swear, that is not the man."

Lisbon shook her head and headed down the steps, a very puzzled detective in her wake.

"So…" sang Jane.

Lisbon sighed. "Okay. You were right."

"It's funny how I never tire of hearing that."

Nelson was shaking his head. "I don't get it. I just don't get it."

"Obviously," said Jane. "Maybe what you should get is one of those real official police thingies, oh, what are they called Lisbon? ABPs…BPA's…"

She grit her teeth. He was so smug sometimes. "APBs."

"Ah yes." His eyes were dancing. "Those."

"I'll get right on it," growled Nelson.

"And I'd like to see the pier."

"Where the guy died?"

"Is there another? Perhaps one with a silent D?"

Lisbon leaned into him. "Get in the car or I'll kick you in the shin."

"We don't talk that way on Sesame Street."

She yanked open the door and shoved him inside, the smile never leaving his face. She and Nelson climbed into the front and slowly, the sedan drove away from Roger Saulay and into the _Alameda_ fog.

_End of Chapter 2_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Jonathon Redding**_

_Chapter 3_

An APB was sent out immediately for the man formerly known as Douglas Rayer and/or Rodger Saulay, but with only a description, there was little chance of anyone finding him. Lisbon had ordered a Forensics sweep of Rayer's room at the _Ragged Branch,_ but it was unlikely to be fruitful. Motel rooms were terrible for forensic evidence. Too many guests over too many years, even after diligent cleanings in between. Det. Sergeant Nelson himself had been surlier than usual on the drive to the docks, barking orders into his cell phone, but saying little to either agent or consultant. Lisbon wasn't surprised. All cops took pride in their job. Failure was personal, no matter the circumstance.

"So, tell me again how this one played out," said Lisbon from the passenger seat of Nelson's sedan.

The big man grunted. "911 gets a call at 6:12am from a Rodger Saulay, saying there's a dead guy on the East End dockyard. Says he was fishing off the pier and found some blood, took a quick glance between the storage cabs and saw what he thought to be a body. Then he waited for the cruiser to show up. I mean, most guys wouldn't. Most guys would just call it in and run."

"But for some reason, Rodger Saulay sticks around," said Lisbon. "He wants to be a part of it. He wants the rush."

"But he's gonna get caught if he keeps doing that."

She grimaced. "That's part of the rush."

"Polley," came a voice from the back seat. The only thing in view was a pair of dark grey knees. "Is that pronounced 'pole-y' or 'polly'?"

"How the hell should I know," grumbled Nelson. "His girlfriend just called him Nick."

"One can assume that 'Nick' is short for 'Nicholas', yeh?"

_"Geez…"_

Lisbon sighed. "Yes, Jane. One can assume that."

"But we don't _know_ that, now do we?"

"No, Jane. We don't _know_ that."

The back seat hmphed, and there was the sound of pencil on paper.

"You got a genius on your hands here, Agent Lisbon." Nelson grunted. "A regular idiot savant."

Her smile was growing thin. "He called Rodger Saulay, didn't he, Det. Sergeant?"

Nelson grunted again but said nothing.

It was almost dark as they rolled onto the wharf, but at least the fog had lifted. It was a cool evening, and damp, and she was grateful for the peacoat she had brought on the trip. It had been a second-thought, but it was serving her well now. Jane, on the other hand, had only his waist-coat and jacket, and she wondered if he would feel the cold.

"Right," said Nelson. "Here we are…" Both he and Lisbon exited the car. Jane did not.

The cop threw her a look. She sighed, leaned back into the car.

"Jane? Are you coming?"

"Oh? Are we here?"

"Yes, Jane. We're here."

He frowned, crumpled up one last piece of paper and tossed it into the driver's seat before slipping out and to her side.

They walked down a narrow side dock beside the water, and the smell of salt was strong in the air. It was a service road for forklifts and other dockyard vehicles, dimly lit and hidden from most eyes. She could see her breath now, tossed a quick glance at Jane. He didn't seem cold. As usual, he was looking around, taking in the atmosphere, the scene, the bigger picture. It was almost as if he spoke a different language when it came to police work. Evidence was only one letter in a vastly different alphabet.

They finally stopped at a section where cabs were stacked four high and twenty long and a countless number deep, making a labyrinth of metal, dock and moonlight out of this section of pier. The yellow tape had been taken down, the area cleaned of all evidence, and other than an APD sticker on one of the cabs, there was nothing to commend this spot as a murder scene. She could see lights from all around the harbour, and even farther out, the lights of _San Francisco_ twinkled like stars.

She sighed, not sure what she was meaning to intuit from being here. Jane had wanted to come. It had been his idea.

"Nick Polley," she began, as Jane was saying nothing, content to just look around. "He was a trucker?"

"Yeah. For _EMP Trucking_. It's a local firm, big in the Bay area, but really small potatoes considering."

"And he lives in this area?"

"Yeah, with his girlfriend downtown."

"And what is her name?" asked Jane.

Nelson swung around, bristling. "What is it with you and names? You Autistic or something?"

Jane smiled the smile that reminded her of diamonds, brilliant, glittering and very, very hard. "Just paying attention. Her name?"

Nelson grunted. "Peggy Daniels. I got her address in the file. The _real _file. The paper file, if you want to double check."

"No, no. Thank you." He glanced at Lisbon. "I'm going to take a walk. This part of the wharf reeks of rotting fish."

And he turned his back to them, becoming little more than a silhouette in moments before the shadows of the cabs swallowed him up.

Lisbon swung back to Nelson. "You're an ass," she growled.

"_I'm_ an ass? _He's_ the –"

"Shut up or we'll take the case and you'll be pushing parking tickets at the next Raiders' game. Got that, Det. Sergeant?"

He grumbled but thankfully, said nothing.

"Okay, he works for _EMP Trucking._ Was he picking up or unloading? What was his cargo?"

"He was picking up a load of text books from a Taiwan freighter."

"And no one else was around?"

"No, that's not the deal. His rig was back there, at the loading docks. This area is just storage for the empty cabs."

"And so he just left his rig and went for a walk?"

The big man shrugged. "I'm not his girlfriend. If he wants to go for a walk by the water at night, he can go for a walk."

She stared at him, wondering how many Det. Sergeant Nelsons there were in the state of California. Officers who simply did their job and went home to a beer and a game. How many perps walked the streets because guys like these simply 'did their jobs?'

"Okay, I'm going to need the names of the men who loaded his rig, the supervisor who signed off on it, the captain of the freighter, where the shipment was headed…"

"Gotcha," he said, a little too quickly.

"You have a problem with a little police work, Detective?"

"No ma'am. It appears I have a problem with you people."

"Deal with it." She shoved her hands in her pockets and gazed out over the water.

A chill ran down her spine. And somehow she didn't think it wasn't caused by the cold.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Hands in pockets, Patrick Jane shivered. It was cold and damp and dark, but at least it wasn't raining as it so often did in the area by the Bay. And in fact, he didn't mind overmuch, as he loved walking at night. It was almost as if his mind slowed down, took a breath, changed its pace from the constant racing of thoughts that sped like cars at rush hour. Yes, at night his mind was Sunday morning. At night his mind sighed.

He needed a scotch.

There was something not clicking with this case, with these damned names, and he knew now that he was trying too hard. He needed to relax, for the answer was surely there. It just needed freedom to peek out, like a groundhog on February 2. Something about this case had thrown him, whether it was the grisly nature of the crime, the echoes of Red John, the needling of the Forensic guy, or this particularly abrasive cop, something was preventing his normally sharp mind from picking up on what it needed to do.

He was tired.

No, it was more than just that. He was tired, to be sure, but he was distracted. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be in a dusty attic, pouring over files and making notes. He wanted to be chipping away at the mountain that was Red John. He was losing this game - he had realized this over the summer - and he had begun to realize that it might not be his brilliance that closed part of his life, but rather, his belligerence. Red John would make a mistake and he would simply be there to find it. It was the only thing he could hope for.

He paused at a corner of the pier, looked out over the water. Black upon inky black, with lights reflecting, moving up and down with the waves. Lights from the docks, lights from boats, lights from the city so far away. The sound of lapping water and heavy boats rising and falling. Sometimes he wished he could leave. Just walk away and disappear into the night, with never another thought of Red John, his life, his wife or daughter, Krystina Frye, his job, his sanity. On a night like this, he could leave. But there would always be a dawn, and everything would come back in a maddening rush, and the traffic in his head would start up once again.

And then there was Lisbon. She deserved better than he gave her. Kept her close enough to be his anchor, but far enough to keep her safe, but even that was becoming dangerous. At some point, Red John would realize how much she grounded him, and he would cut that string without a thought. And that would be decidedly bad for both of them.

He sighed, feeling the familiar knife of guilt stab into him again. Just being in the same unit with her made her a target. He was a fool for staying. Revenge was for fools and madmen, he had told her once. But 'fools and madmen speak the truth', or so the saying went. Yes, he was quite certain he was both.

She would be looking for him. He had left her with that mustachioed buffoon. It wasn't fair on her. She deserved so much better. He sighed and turned around.

There was a man sitting on the ground, staring at him.

It was dark, and he was huddled, but there was a glint of something on his arm, something else in his hand, and Jane had seen that glint often enough in his sorry life to know what it was. Slowly, the man rose to his feet and the glint rose with him.

Jane swallowed, knowing Lisbon and her gun were far, far away. He raised his hands, purely by instinct.

"You…?" groaned the man and he stepped into the moonlight. Jane swallowed again, wondering if anyone else in the world had such bad luck or whether it was just himself. For the man standing before him, brandishing a blade, was the man formerly known as Douglas Rayer and Rodger Saulay.

"How the hell did you know, man?" he moaned, the knife glinting in the moonlight. "How the hell did you find me?"

"Ahh," said Jane carefully. "Well, it wasn't really a 'find', so much as a 'here I am going for a stroll on the dock at night and oh my, we meet again'… kind of… find."

Rayer took a step forward, knife bloody, his own arm even bloodier. "It's not your turn."

"My turn?"

"You're last. On the boat."

"Oh the boat. I know, I, I do," said Jane quickly, for in truth, he didn't. "And I'm not really the type for butting in front of others, so ah…" He glanced behind him. Only a thirty-foot drop and then water. "We should wait, yeh? For the boat…"

"I can't do this any more. This was a bad idea."

Jane brought his eyes back to Rayer, glanced down at the slices across his forearm. "Is that why are you cutting yourself, Doug?"

"That's not my name."

"I know, but it suits you. Kind, clean, earthy. It's a good name."

"My name is Mark. Mark Mooney," and the man stared down at the knife in his hand.

Jane frowned. It was a regular kitchen boning knife, with short sharp point and black handle. Not the kind that had been used on Aniston Chapman. Or Chapman Aniston. Or whatever the man's name was.

"It's not your fault, Mark," he said evenly. "He made you do it…"

The blade swung up, dangerously close to his face. Jane leaned back, dangerously close to the edge.

"No, I didn't do it, man! _They _did!"

"No, no, of course you didn't. That's not what I meant…" He cursed his choice of words, needing to be sharper, needing to be present. He couldn't afford another mistake. "No, they made you watch. They made you stay."

The man's eyes grew glassy for a heartbeat. His breathing changed. Jane pressed on.

"They were teaching you, weren't they?"

"No, it's just a part of the lessons, that's all. We were going to publish someday."

"Ah. Publish. Yes. Publishing is good."

"But I don't think I can."

"No. No publishing."

"I can't do it."

"No, you can't." _Lisbon_? His eyes flicked to the far end of the docks and not for the first time in his life, he wished he truly were psychic. "You have boundaries, you have limits, standards…"

"Yeah…"

"It was the intestines, wasn't it?"

"...yeah…"

Jane made a face. "That was just wrong."

The young man sobbed. "I knew he would do it. He was totally game for it. And it's written that way, but when I saw it…I just…I just…"

"It's written?"

"In all the books. I knew it. I know it."

"It's written that way…" Jane muttered to himself.

"The one here, that was good. I could handle that, I could do this, but the one in the park…"

Jane was not paying attention, for he was thinking. Mark Mooney could have been on Mars. "It's written…" he repeated. "...in the books…"

"In the text books."

"Yes, in the text books."

And suddenly he knew.

His stomach lurched at the knowing.

"Mark," he began in a voice low and lulling. "There is no point in the path they are following. No one will publish this. There is no point, and there is no peace."

"But there is a point. It's the beginning. It's very important."

"Okay, sure. It's very important. But there is no peace, Mark. There is no harmony. There is no quiet. And you are a man of peace. Of harmony. Of quiet. You love the water, the peace and harmony of the water, the harmony of the waves, the quiet sound of the waves…"

He began to lower his hands.

Mooney's lids were blinking slowly.

"You want peace, the sound of the water, the sound of the waves. Can you hear them, Mark? Hear the harmony in their voice, hear the quiet—"

"_Police! Put your weapon down!"_

It was Lisbon and it was sudden and the young man named Mark Mooney snapped out of his stupor and lunged forward, grabbed Jane's sleeve and yanked him into a stranglehold, blade pressed deeply into the consultant's throat.

"No way man!" shouted the man. "It's not my fault!"

"Put down the weapon and we'll talk. _NOW!"_

He could see her in the darkness, moonlight reflecting off her shiny hair and gun. In fact, it was a study in roundness, her round eyes, pouting mouth mirroring the round muzzle of the Glock in her hand. Her brow was low, jaw determined, and he thought with a detached sort of thought that she was rather pretty when she was scary.

"Stay away or I'll cut his throat!"

"But it's not my turn, remem—"

Mark yanked him even tighter, glanced down at the water below them.

"I say again, put your weapon down!"

"Shut up!" and Mooney took a step back, keeping Jane between the Glock and himself.

"Mr. Rayer, you don't want to do this. Put it down, let Jane go and we can see if we can talk to the DA about—"

From the other side, a shot rang out and Mooney's head snapped back. A split second later, his body snapped back and the pair of them, both student and consultant, pitched backwards, plunging into the cold, black darkness that was the _Bay of San Francisco._

_End of Chapter 3_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Jonathon Redding**_

_Chapter 4_

It was dark in the _Alameda_ Station House, much like the night shifts at the CBI office back in _Sacramento._ People were working, but lights were dimmed, conversations hushed, as if to remind folks of their natural circadian rhythms and the universal power of the night.

Kimball Cho folded his phone, slipped it into his pocket and reached for his coffee.

"They just fished Jane out of the Bay."

"What?" Rigsby looked up sharply, then shook his head. "That guy's got more lives than a cat. What was he doing in the Bay?"

"I dunno. Something to do with Nelson and Rayer."

"The real Rayer or the fake Rayer?"

"Didn't say. She wants you to call Grace. Have her drive up with our bags."

"Cool." He bit into a stale donut. They had just returned from questioning the real Douglas Rayer and had begun filing their reports back at the station house_._ Nothing had been touched, so as far as they were concerned, Interrogation Room 2 and all its contents, were still theirs. Including that afternoon's plate of donuts. "We staying in _Alameda?"_

"Nah," said Cho. "We're heading out to the Field Office in San _Fran."_

"Sweet."

"Speaking of sweet, how can you eat that donut? It's as hard as a rock."

Rigsby shrugged. "Willpower."

"I don't think you're Bert," mumbled Cho. "You're the Cookie Monster."

"Oohh yeah."

Cho grinned and bent back down to his report.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

The dockyards were illuminated with light.

Yellow lights beaming from the headlights of the squad cars jamming the area. Blue and red lights flashing from the bubbletops. White light pouring from the powerlamps used to light up the dark water as divers searched for the body of Mark Mooney aka Douglas Rayer aka Rodger Saulay. Lisbon pinched the bridge of her nose. All the lights were giving her a headache.

The paramedic turned back to her.

"Okay, so his hearing should return to normal within 24 hours. But, just in case it doesn't, you know what to look for?"

She nodded. "Headaches, lethargy, persistent ringing in the ears, inability to focus. Yep," she nodded again. "I got it."

"And if the hearing doesn't return…?"

"Take him to the hospital."

"He really should go to a hospital now, you know…"

"I know. He hates doctors."

The man threw one last glance at his patient, who was leaning against the hood of a cop car, wrapped in a grey wool blanket. He looked back at Lisbon.

"Good luck, ma'am."

And with that, the paramedic climbed back into his ambulance and rolled slowly backwards off the pier.

She sighed, shoved her hands in her pea-coat pockets and ambled back to where Jane was leaning.

"Hey," she said. "How are you feeling?"

He glanced up at her, still holding a warm pack against one ear all the while trying to keep the paramedic's woolen blanket tugged up over his shoulders. The water had soaked him to the core, made his hair bunch into damp curls, but had done little to touch the splatter of Mooney's blood on his cheek or collar.

"_What?"_ he yelled.

She laid a hand on his arm. "You don't need to yell, Jane. I can hear."

"Everything is ringing!"

"I know." Gunfire at point blank range was deafening, figuratively and literally. That was why people needed headphones at firing ranges. And Jane seemed particularly sensitive. He always flinched at the sound of gunfire. "They haven't found Rayer's body yet."

"Mooney," he said, still loudly. "Mark Mooney."

She shook her head. "What the hell was he doing here anyway?"

"Where's Nelson?"

"Um…" She looked around. The pier was crawling with cops, plainclothes and uniforms. Nelson was in his element, the big dog in a fawning pack. She gestured and it was with great reluctance that he trudged over to the CBI agent and her drenched consultant.

"Yeah?"

Jane stared at him. Even with a pack over one ear and a wool blanket over his shoulders, his eyes were sharp and shining. "Why'd you shoot him?"

Nelson frowned. "He had a knife at your throat. I got a clean shot. I took it."

Lisbon leaned in. "He saved your life, Jane."

Jane shook his head. "He wasn't going to kill me. It wasn't my turn."

"Your turn? It wasn't _your turn?"_ Now it was Nelson's turn to shake his head. "You're a nut bar, you know that?"

"May I see your gun?" Jane held out his hand.

"What? No. I gotta turn that in at the precinct for verification. Once they find the kid's body 'n all…"

Jane waggled his fingers. "Now. I just want to see it."

Nelson glanced at Lisbon. She shrugged.

"Hand it over, detective," she said, turning to face him.

The man snorted before reaching around to pull his piece from his hip, passed it firmly into Jane's waiting hand. Jane felt the weight of it, the grip, the metal. "What is this?" he asked as he turned it over and over in his hand.

"A Kimber TLE/1911 semi-automatic. Sweet, powerful and fast. All the SWATs carry 'em."

"Hmm…"

Nelson rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't know what this is about. It was a legit shooting."

Lisbon shook her head. "Don't worry. He hates guns. If he wants to see it, it's likely only for –"

It took almost a full second before the slide and click of the weapon being cocked registered in her mind. The sound was immediately followed by many other slides and clicks, and she realized with dread that they suddenly had a 'situation' on their hands.

Patrick Jane was pointing a gun at Det. Sergeant Nelson's head, and six other officers were pointing their guns at his.

"_Jane…"_ she hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, just seeing what it feels like." His voice was light, but his eyes were steel. He seemed oblivious to the other officers, had eyes only for Nelson. And to her surprise, his grip was perfect, as if he had held many such weapons before. The thought frightened her, just a little. "Hm, yes. Power, intimidation, ego. Actually, it's a bit of a rush. Just what I would have expected from a buffoon like you."

"Jane, put it down."

It took another few moments, but he did, and there was a collective sigh from the cops. Only Nelson remained frozen in place. Still seemingly oblivious, Jane pulled the weapon close to examine it again in the flood of multicoloured lights that now illuminated the pier.

"You do know, Det. Nelson, that you just killed our only link to a serial killer…" He pressed the mag release and the clip dropped out into his hand. "And that three more people are going to die before this stops? _If_ it stops." He tossed the clip to the detective. _"_You are a small-minded, bigoted and insecure little man and your idol is power."

And with that, he pushed up from where he was leaning, turned and flung the Kimber with all his might into the dark sky over the bay. It hit the water with a splash.

Nelson released a deep breath. "You're insane, man. Seriously insane."

"I'm sorry. I can't hear you." Jane smiled and turned back to Lisbon. "Can we go, now?" He hiked the blanket up around his shoulders once again.

Heart still pounding in her throat, she nodded, followed him woodenly to where a squad car was waiting, and together they drove back to the _Alameda_ Station House. Nelson drove back alone.

"""""""""""""""""""""""

The dawn brought with it a welcomed change of venue, as the investigation was moved to the CBI office in _San Francisco_. It seemed prudent, as _Big Sur, Berkeley_ and _Alameda_ were all in close proximity to the city by the Bay, much closer than _Sacramento_. So they took a hotel near the regional office that morning, one that met the CBI budget requirements. They had their choice of nice ones, but for of all the team, only Patrick Jane had a request.

Not the _Fairmont,_ he had pleaded. Any hotel but the _Fairmont. *_

And so they checked into the _San Francisco Super 8,_ a 6-storey hotel with few amenities, with the exception of free parking and several nearby donut shops. It was a dive, but then again, it was only for sleep, and as Lisbon had repeatedly reminded them, it was well-within the CBI budget. Hightower would have approved.

Grace Van Pelt had driven up with a second SUV and their overnight bags from their lockers back at HQ. They booked 3 rooms, one for the women, one for Cho and Rigsby and one for Jane. It wasn't until they hit the elevator that Rigsby noticed something.

"Hey," he said suddenly as the bell dinged the second floor and they kept on going. "How come Jane always gets his own room?"

Jane grinned at looked at Lisbon, eagerly awaiting her answer. There was still blood on his face. She sighed.

"Do you like sleeping, Rigsby?" she asked dryly.

"Yeah."

The bell dinged for the third floor, and they kept on going.

"Jane doesn't sleep, remember? He watches late night movies and the Discovery Channel and the Shopping Network. He paces and goes for long walks at all hours of the night. He does his Sudoku and Kakaro and a hundred other Japanese puzzle things that end in a vowel. And if he doesn't do any of that, he's going to talk. He's going to talk and talk and talk and talk. He's going to show you magic tricks. He's going to ask you embarrassing questions about your mother. And once he's finished with that, he's going to hypnotize you into doing something completely asinine in front of your colleagues, the cleaning staff or worse, passersby on the street outside. That's what he's going to do if he shares a room with you."

Jane grinned and looked at Rigsby.

Rigsby looked at Jane. "You would do all of that?"

"And more," grinned Jane.

The big man pouted. "What if he bunks with Cho?"

"Cho knows where you sleep and he has a gun."

Cho grinned and looked at Rigsby.

"And that's why I get my own room," said Jane, rocking back on his heels.

The bell dinged for the third floor and Cho stepped out. He turned to his partner. "You coming?"

Rigsby looked at Jane. "You would do all of that? Really?"

"And more," grinned Jane.

Rigsby walked out and the door slid shut.

After a moment, Jane sighed and looked at Lisbon. "He's right you know. It's not really fair."

"And you care about fair…since _when?"_

The consultant shrugged. "Grace could have her own room…"

"And you would bunk where?"

"With you."

Van Pelt bit her lip, turned her dark eyes to the ceiling. The bell dinged for the fifth floor and they kept on going.

"With _me?"_ Lisbon gaped at him, not sure whether he was serious or not. "I don't think so."

"Why not? You would have one bed, I would have the other. I'm reasonably certain you don't snore, so—"

"Absolutely not!"

"Maybe I don't like San Francisco."

"So?"

"Bad things happen to me in San Francisco…"

"Bad things. Like what?"

"Vampires, Berkeley students, earthquakes, buffoon cops with SWAT guns. I won't be able to hear the alarm. I'll sleep right through the wake up call. You'll get mad at me again…" He looked at her, earnestly. "Bad things."

The bell dinged for the sixth floor.

"Good night, Jane. Or good morning, as the case may be. Meet us at the coffee shop at noon." And with that, both she and Van Pelt strode out of the elevator, turning left as they went.

Patrick Jane sighed and looked at his key. It was a key, not a key card. Old school.

Bad things happened to him. And not just in San Francisco.

He stepped out of the elevator and turned right down the hall.

"""""""""""""""""""""""

Even with the blinds drawn, it was difficult for her to fall asleep. The events of the night kept running over and over in her mind. The discovery of the real 'Roger Saulay', the dark pier, Jane at knife point, the gunshot and the splash, the sickening tightness in her chest until the blond head resurfaced, wet and miserable but still in one piece. The way he had held that damned gun.

She sighed and pressed her palms into her eyes. He hated guns. What the hell was he thinking, pointing it at Nelson like that? The cop was filing charges, for heaven's sake. They hadn't found Rayer's body. They still hadn't found the Kimber either. It was probably halfway to Hawaii by now. What _had_ he been thinking?

With another sigh, she rolled up to sit on the edge of the bed, debated running a hot tub or an even hotter shower, but with this dive of a hotel, the water would likely be lukewarm. She glanced around at the furnishings. No little fridge, no wet bar. Probably a good thing, otherwise she would be tempted to wash this sinking sensation away with a little Scotch. No, it was good there was no fridge.

The gunshot and the splash. The blond head in the dark water.

The way he'd held that damned gun.

She pushed herself up and headed for the shower.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It was sunny when they met in the coffee shop at noon. It was a second rate coffee shop, that much was obvious, but it was a _Super 8_ – one couldn't expect the _Hilton._ None of them was particularly refreshed from the six hours of sleep, but at least they'd had a chance to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes. Overnight bags were a staple of Bureau work. You couldn't leave home without one.

They'd ordered off a menu that offered 24-hour breakfast, and Rigsby had taken them up on it, ordering bacon, eggs, sausages and hash browns. Cho'd had a burger, Lisbon a club, Van Pelt a salad. No one was surprised that they had almost finished by the time Jane ambled down to meet them, arms filled with paper, what was left of his pencil tucked behind one ear.

"Nice of you to join us," Lisbon smirked as she sipped her coffee. She made a face. It was nowhere near as good as the one from the _Ragged Branch_.

He smiled at her, looked around. The waitress hadn't removed the dirty dishes and there was no room at the little metal table. So he placed his armful on a second table, dragged the entire thing, rocking and scraping, over to where they sat. From a corner, the waitress eyed him but said nothing.

"Tea please!" He waved a hand at her, dropped himself into a brown fiberglass chair. "Did anyone else hear that accursed ringing all night?"

"Are your ears still bothering you?"

"What?"

Cho and Rigsby glanced at each other. Van Pelt bit her lip.

Lisbon leaned forward. "How is your hearing?"

"And good morning to you too, Lisbon." He rolled his eyes. "My, but you're chipper this morning. Then again, you didn't almost get your ears shot off and fall in the _Bay of San Francisco _last night, now did you? No indeed."

She looked down, rubbed her forehead with her hand.

"So we need to go back to Berkeley. And where is my tea? Miss? Miss?"

"Next time _I'll_ make sure not to miss…" Lisbon growled under her breath.

Jane sighed and turned around. "Okay, no tea. Fine. Now that we know who and what we're looking for, it should be easy, especially since we have the general vicinity to work with. You have to admit it was very clever on their part. That took a lot of digging, a lot of computer work…" He raised his brows, shook his head in admiration, "and one hell of a vivid imagination to work this one out."

"Jane…"

"But I'm convinced if they can do it, so can we."

"Jane…"

He pulled the pencil out of his hair, grabbed the sheets, began to shuffle, looking for something.

Lisbon reached out, put a hand on his sleeve. "Jane, what are you talking about?"

"What's that? Speak up, woman."

"**What. Are. You. Talking. About?"** She spoke up, pronounced every syllable.

He frowned. "The case. What else?"

"**Do. You. Know. What's. Going. On?"**

"Of course. Don't you?" He glanced around again, caught the waitress' eye, waved at her. "Tea, please!"

With a shake of her head, the waitress rolled off her station and into the kitchen.

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "A serial killer was shot on the pier last night. The only thing left for us is to clean up the details, tie up the loose ends and go home."

He stabbed at her with his pencil. "And which case are you working on, then?"

"Jane…"

He pushed a sheet of paper at her. On it were five names.

_Mary Anne "Polly" Nichols_

_Annie Chapman_

_Elizabeth Stride_

_Catherine Eddowes _

_Mary Jane Kelly_

She frowned. For some reason, the names were familiar.

She passed the sheet to the others. Immediately, Cho's head snapped up.

"Oh no…"

Jane grinned. _"Aaaah…"_

"What?" asked Rigsby, munching on his last piece of toast.

"The Cho knows. He's a reader." Jane nodded at him, like an approving parent. "And readers are leaders."

Cho sighed, sat back, ran his hands over the back of his head. He frowned at Jane. "Really? You think?"

"All the time, and yes. I do. Don't you?"

Lisbon dropped a hand on the table. "What the hell is going on? Cho, does this make sense to you?"

"Yeah," he said. "It does."

"And it means….?"

He glanced at Jane, who was smiling at the waitress as she dropped a steaming cup in front of him, splashing it over the side and onto the saucer. She turned and shuffled away. Jane frowned.

"That doesn't look like tea."

Lisbon leaned forward. "Cho? Jane? What does it mean?"

Jane lifted the cup to his nose, sniffed, dropped it back down again, sighing. "This is coffee."

"**What. Does. It. Mean?"**

"It means this waitress will not be getting a tip."

"I will shoot you both. I swear."

Jane pushed the cup away. "Bad things happen in San Francisco."

Cho's dark eyes met hers.

"Tell me," she growled.

"Jack the Ripper," he said finally.

"I told you," Jane sighed again. "Bad things."

_End of Chapter 4_

*referring to "Blood Red Moon" by 221b Baker Street


	5. Chapter 5

**Jonathon Redding**

_**Chapter 5**_

She stared at him.

"Jack the Ripper?"

Jane nodded. "Jack the Ripper."

Lisbon stared at him a moment longer, then sat back in her chair, shaking her head and smirking. "Uh-No."

"Uh-Yeh." He tapped the sheet. "It's right there. Polly Nichols. Nicholas Polley. Annie Chapman. Chapman Aniston. Right there. In HB pencil."

Lisbon was still shaking her head. "Coincidence."

"There is no such thing as coincidence, Lisbon." Jane leaned forward now, fingers dancing in front of her as he spoke. "Polly Nichols died of two slashes to the throat. Her abdomen had been slashed open but no organs removed. Ten days later, Annie Chapman, again two slashes to the throat. Her intestines—"

"Let me guess – removed."

"And placed upon her shoulder. Her uterus was removed. Couldn't take that from Chapman Aniston, now could we? And while the testicles may be the equivalent organs, they're not nearly so dramatic as a uterus. So he takes his appendix instead."

Rigsby, who had been eating a noon-time breakfast, spit out his toast.

"I hate Rippers," said Cho.

"No Jane," said Lisbon adamantly. "This makes no sense."

"It makes complete sense."

"Alright, when you say it, it makes some sense, but it's, it's, it's such a stretch."

"You are bound by your conventionality, Lisbon. Let it go. It's surprising the freedom you'll find lurking out here."

Van Pelt cocked her head. "But why men?"

Jane looked at her.

"I mean, if you're trying to recreate the Ripper murders, why target men? The Ripper targeted women. Why change something so fundamental?"

"That's a very good question, Grace…" and Jane turned to look at Lisbon. He had a theory, she could tell.

"Well…" she prodded. "Go on, Inspector. Don't leave us in the dark."

He made a face. "Really, Lisbon? Here? I haven't even had a cup of tea…"

She leaned forward**. "I'm. Going. To. Shoot. You."** Every syllable loud and pronounced.

"You only have a Glock. The Kimber is all steel. It's the one all the SWATS use." He cocked his head like a puppy. "Please, Lisbon. There's too much ringing here. Can we go to the office? The real office around the corner? They probably have a kitchenette like we did, they probably have tea bags and a little blue cup…Maybe some carpet to muffle the sound?"

"Then you'll tell me what you're thinking?"

"Every single thing. And then some."

She glanced at her team. They were sharp and eager and hanging on her every word. She had never worked with better.

"Alright, let's go. We'll walk."

They all rose to their feet and the waitress was suddenly there, dropping the bill on the table in front.

Lisbon sighed. "Charge it to room 603."

"And no tip." Jane turned to the waitress. "You are a careless, thoughtless and unimaginative woman, and your idol is comf—"

Lisbon grabbed his arm and yanked him away, suddenly very grateful that more people didn't carry guns.

"""""""""""""""""""""

The CBI Field Office was located in the _Office of the Attorney General, San Francisco,_ and was relatively modern compared to their HQ back home. There were glass and steel partitions, modern terrazzo floors and cool coloured walls that brought to mind impressions of big sky and water. Large framed photographs in black and white chronicled the history of the city, some dating back to before the quake, and the smiling faces of various political figures adorned the walls. The staff had been helpful, efficient and polite, a welcome change from Det. Sergeant Nelson and his stale donuts, and they found themselves a comfortable conference room to set up shop.

Grace was busy setting up her computers, Cho and Rigsby pinning up images from the two crime scenes and Jane – well, Jane was leaning back in a chair, eyes closed, feet up on the table, enjoying what was his first cup of tea in 24 hours. He had been crestfallen that there were no little blue cups, but he had settled on a sunny yellow one instead, resting it on his vested belly. Against his grey suit, it looked like a patch of sunshine. In fact, to Lisbon, he looked very much like a cat in the sun.

"Okay, Sherlock," she growled, only half pretending to be annoyed. "Anytime you're ready…"

"Hmm?"

"You have a theory?"

"Hush. I'm working on turning the ringing into a symphony…"

"You're full of bunk."

He smiled, eyes still closed.

"Grace, Cho, can you fill in the blanks while Mozart over there is composing?"

Cho turned around, shrugged. "All I know is what I've read, and most of that from fiction books."

Grace nodded. "And that's the problem. There is so much myth, speculation and supposition surrounding that case that it's almost impossible to separate fact from fiction."

She made some clicks on her laptop and the screen split into five. "These are what are called the 'Canonical Five', the women Jane gave us on the list. Mary Anne "Polly" Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly, but the _Whitechapel_ district in_ London_ was a hotbed of crime and prostitution back then. There were many, many murdered women, some of whom were never investigated or even named."

"This case was investigated by _Scotland Yard, _right? frowned Lisbon. "There's bound to be original police records."

Van Pelt nodded. "I can try to contact _New Scotland Yard,_ see what they can send over…"

Jane made a little needling sound but did not open his eyes. Lisbon ground her teeth.

"Do we need to separate fact from fiction?" Rigsby now, holding up a push pin. "I mean, I doubt if this killer has any access to the original files, right? All he has is what he's read, what's on the Net, just like anyone else…"

"Good point," said Lisbon. "But if this killer is trying to keep the details as similar as possible, then the more accurate information we have, the better."

"But again," asked Grace. "Why men?"

"Jane?" Lisbon looked at him.

"Hush. It's a crescendo…"

She sighed. "I guess we'll get to that in a minute. Other than the names –"

"And the mutilations," added Rigsby as he stuck another grisly photo to the board.

"_And_ the mutilations, are there other similarities?"

"Um, let's see…Nick Polley was killed exactly 10 days before Chapman Aniston…" Van Pelt's fingers flew over the keys. "And Polly Nichols was killed exactly 10 days before Annie Chapman. I wonder how this will tie in with Elizabeth Stride…"

"The next victim?" asked Lisbon and she leaned forward, watching as Grace did her thing. Honestly, the young woman was remarkable on the computer, having almost a sixth sense about how to find information with the click of a mouse. "And how in the world do you change_ that_ name into a man's, and then find him somewhere within a 500 mile radius?"

"I could find him," said Jane finally. He still hadn't budged, the little yellow teacup balanced on his tummy.

"I thought you were composing," she smirked.

"Meh. I ran into an atonal patch. Threw off my musical groove." He pulled his legs off the table, set the cup down. "If you gave me a bunch of names, I could tell you who the next victim would be."

"Just from the names?"

"Ah. Let me think. Yeh."

"And how would we get that list?"

"I don't know." He made a face. _"You're _the cops. _I'm_ the consultant. Do your jobs, then consult me. Simple."

The conference room fell into silence.

Rigsby folded his arms across his chest. "So both of these vics have had their last names used as the first, and their first names used as their last, right?"

Cho nodded. "Nick Polley, Polly Nichols. Chapman Aniston, Annie Chapman."

"What's the next name? Elizabeth Stride?"

"Stride is not a common first name for a man," grumbled Cho.

"Neither is Kimball," grinned Rigsby.

"Neither is Chapman," grinned Jane. "But there are 30 million people in this state, most of them with insanely bad taste. Couldn't even name a dog to save their lives."

Grace swung around from the screens. "We could run a DMV cross check, using only the state of California and all the variants of 'Elizabeth' that Jane could think of…"

Lisbon threw a glance at the consultant. He shrugged. "Sure. But I would need a new pencil…"

Lisbon sighed. "This could take a long time."

"Well," said Grace, staring at the screen. "Looks like we may have that. Elizabeth Stride was killed a month after Chapman."

"And Eddowes was killed the very same night as Stride," added Jane.

Lisbon turned to him. "And how do you know all this? Is it all just rattling around in that 'memory palace' of yours?"

He stared at her, blinking. "How do I know about serial killers? Are you really asking me that?"

She lowered her eyes. "No. How do you know so much about_ this_ serial killer?"

He shrugged again. "Old 'Leather Apron' was essentially the father of the modern-day serial killer. Oh, the phenomenon has always been around – we humans are a zoological oddity that way - but he was the first one to become a household name, go down in history, become a Victorian celebrity as it were. They all crave that kind of attention now. Goes straight to their sense of self-worth, ego and pride. Serial killers are, by nature, narcissistic."

"Hmm…" she said, nodding. "Their idol is self."

He cocked his head at her. "Exactly, Lisbon. Well done."

She smiled to herself, pleased.

"Actually, everyone's idol is self, when you come right down to it. Even Shoe-Queen."

"Oh? How so?"

"The shoes were a status symbol, so really, the shoes only serve the status. And status is a reflection of position in society, which is a reflection of self-worth, which is at its core, simply self." He crossed his arms and leaned back. "We're a pathetic species, all things considered. The dolphins should be ruling the earth."

They all grinned at that.

"Besides," he continued. "With Mooney out of the picture, that might throw off the timing a bit. They might want to stop and reconsider, or they might want to speed things up, get down and dirty just that much quicker."

"_They,"_ said Lisbon, sitting forward. "You mentioned that last night."

"After you pulled me out of the water?"

"Yes, then. What do you mean, 'they'?"

"I don't know. That's what Mooney said. 'They'. _They_ did it. _They _were going to publish. _Someone else_ was totally game. I'm not sure what to do with that yet."

"Maybe he's schizophrenic," said Cho. "Hearing voices."

"Or maybe it is a group of killers," Rigsby now. "Maybe one vic each, like a club."

"Or maybe a mentorship of some kind," added Van Pelt. "If we _are _looking at a Berkeley connection…"

"Those are all good possibilities," said Lisbon. "Rayer – argh, _Mooney_ admitted to being under a doctor's care for anxiety disorder. Maybe it's schizophrenia and he didn't want to say. Maybe he was the pupil under a creepy teacher. Maybe it's a new frat house, dabbling in the dark side. Either way, we need to check into him, where he lived, who he hung out with, if he was indeed a student there…"

Jane was silent now, a fact which did not escape Lisbon. She wondered if he was just thinking, or if the noise in his head was simply getting louder. It wasn't all caused by the gunshot, she knew this full well, and she wondered how much he could take before he shattered.

For some reason, it broke her heart.

There was a rap on the glass door and a young woman entered. She was small, with large dark eyes and long dark hair pulled off her Latina face. She was holding a slim manila folder.

"Agent Lisbon? Here's that file on Mark Mooney you requested. It's not much, I'm afraid."

"Squeaky clean," remarked Rigsby brightly.

"Yes. Quite." And the woman smiled at him.

Rigsby smiled back.

Grace Van Pelt ground her teeth.

"Agent Mira Vierra." The woman held out her hand to Lisbon and they shook, but her eyes lingered on Wayne Rigsby. "If you need any help, let me know."

Lisbon smiled. "I will, thanks."

"Yeah," said Rigsby. "We will."

"Oh, oh," sang Jane. "I need something."

The young woman turned to him. "Yes?"

"A new pencil. HB, if you please. Not too hard, not too soft. It's a good pencil."

"Yes, sir."

"And make sure it's yellow. I don't like the other colours. Not for pencils."

She smiled at him.

"And I'll need some paper."

"Lined or unlined, sir?"

"Surprise me." But he smiled at her, approvingly.

"Anyway," she turned as she headed for the door. "There's coffee, tea and juice in the kitchen, and snacks in the fridge. Help yourselves. I'll check in later, _with _that pencil and paper…"

"Not to long, mind. I need to make a list."

"Yes, sir."

And she closed the door behind her.

"I like this place," said Jane happily.

"Me too," sighed Rigsby.

Grace shot him a dark glance and turned back to her computer.

"Right…" Lisbon flipped open the folder, green eyes flicking down as she read. "Okay, Mark Mooney was raised in a foster family. Mom died when he was eight, no dad in the picture. Worked to put himself through college—"

"Where?" asked Jane.

"Beg pardon?"

"Where did he work?"

She glanced down at the folder in her hands, smirked. "Well, it wasn't the_ Alameda Super Mega-Mart."_

"Damn," he grumbled.

She smirked some more. "And I hate to burst your 'he's-too-stupid-to-be-a-post-grad student' bubble, but…"

"Damn," he grumbled again, thought for a moment. "_Women's Studies?"_

"Damn," she grumbled.

He brightened. "The Berkeley connection is exquisite."

She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? There's only Rayer... I mean, Mooney…"

He held up a finger. "No, there's Mooney. Mark Mooney. By the way, have they found his body yet?"

"No."

"Wonderful. Then there's Rayer, the _real _Rayer…" he nodded at Cho and Rigsby, "And And we have Nick Polley, the EMP trucker picking up a load from the docks. The freighter was bringing books, yeh? _Text_ books?"

She sighed yet again. "Yeah."

"Going where?"

She tossed Mooney's file down on the conference table, picked up another, one in the process of being assembled by Nelson's crew. "Freighter named _Oolong,_ carrying geology texts en route to…" Her voice faded off. She frowned, set her jaw.

Rigsby whistled. Cho grinned. Van Pelt shook her head.

"En route to _where_ exactly, Lisbon?" Jane was waiting, brows raised, eyes dancing.

She sighed.

"I'm sorry, Lisbon. I'm just not hearing you..."

"Berkeley."

"Ah." He sat back. "Honestly, never tire of that. Must be a quirk."

She resisted the urge to crumple up the report and throw it at his head. "Okay, so you are postulating that we have a serial killer or_ killers_ operating out of _Berkeley._ Chalk up one for Jane's team. We still have to go back to Grace's question, why? Why keep so many details the same, and yet play fast and loose with so many others? It still doesn't make sense."

All eyes in the conference room looked to him.

He shrugged. "That… is a mystery."

"You're full of bunk."

They were all quiet for a long moment. Finally, Jane released a breath.

"Then we should go, yeh?"

"Go?"

"To Berkeley."

"Yeah, we should probably go to Berkeley."

He slurped back the last of his tea, smacked his lips happily and rose to his feet. Lisbon did the same, minus the tea and the smacking.

"Grace, I hate to say it but…"

"I'll stay," she said, a little too quickly.

"No, no, I'll stay," said Rigsby. "Grace always has to stay behind. It's good for her to get some more experience, you know, in the field."

"No, it's alright," said the young woman, her voice firm, dark eyes fixed on him like steel. "I'd like to do some more digging into the original case, see what I can turn up. It's what I do best."

"I don't care who comes along," grumbled Cho. "As long as I don't have to be alone in the Bay area with Jane and a guy who thinks he's Jack the Ripper."

Jane nodded seriously. "Bad things, Cho."

"You got that straight."

"Rigsby," snapped Lisbon. "Heel."

The big man rose to his feet, dejected, and the four of them left the conference room, a victorious Van Pelt working away at the computer.

_End of Chapter 5_


	6. Chapter 6

**Jonathon Redding**

_**Chapter 6**_

The _University of California, Berkeley_ is a rather large place. With more than fifty buildings housing dozens of faculties, it is a beautiful center of arts and culture blending with one of the country's most prominent educational facilities. From Nuclear Engineering to Fine Arts, from Paleobotany to Forensic Science, the _University of California, Berkeley_ has it all. And the Office of the Chancellor sat right at the heart of it.

_California Hall_ itself was a small building, only two stories in the Beaux-Arts style of its architect, John Galen Howard, with white limestone façade, sculpted cedars and high red-tile roof graced with weathered copper. The Sather Tower was visible from its many windows, and from there, the Golden Gate Bridge across the Bay. It was a view they were beginning to know well, for both Lisbon and Jane had been waiting for a very long time.

With a slurp, Jane finished off his tea. The Chancellor's administrator, Ellen Dansigger, had been kind enough to make the offer, and he had taken her up on it. They had been waiting for almost 30 minutes now and Lisbon had to give him credit. For the most part, he had been very patient. He had flipped through all of the magazines on the coffee table in front of them, had done every crossword, every Sudoku, every puzzle he could find inside them. He had ripped out recipes and stuffed them in his pockets. He had even begun working on a list of possible male name combinations for Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly. The yellow pencil was almost gone. But all in all, she had to give him credit.

And so, with that last sip, he rose to his feet, carrying the cup and saucer the very short distance to the receptionist and laying it on her desk. She smiled up at him.

"Thank you so much," he said. "That was very thoughtful." And he touched her on the arm.

"You're welcome," she blushed, obviously charmed.

"That's a lot of magazines you have there."

"Well, yes, sometimes people like to read."

"While they're waiting."

"Yes, while they're waiting."

"That's very, very thoughtful."

She blushed again.

Lisbon rolled her eyes.

And seeing it, he turned that smile on her now, ran one hand then the other along his waistcoat as if thinking. She frowned as little alarm bells began to go off in her head, when suddenly he spun on his heel, took several steps and pushed open the large double doors into the Chancellor's office.

"Jane, no!" Lisbon bolted her feet.

"No, sir! The Chancellor is not ready—"

Chancellor Edwin Haas glared up at them, a phone cradled in one hand, a pen in the other.

"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed and he cupped his hand over the receiver.

"Pardon granted," smiled Jane.

"I'm so sorry, sir," moaned Lisbon, trying but not succeeding in grabbing the consultant's arm.

"Oh, pishtosh, Lisbon. The Chancellor is just finishing up, isn't he?"

"I most certainly am not!" And he held up his phone. "This is a very important call."

"Oh no," said Jane as his eyes swept across the items on the desk. "It most certainly is not. In fact, it's trivial, demeaning and utterly destructive."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Tell her you are finished and that you cannot see her ever again. Tell her that your wife is getting suspicious and that your children deserve so much better and that Ms. Dansigger is a woman of integrity and that she refuses to keep your dirty little secret any longer. You need to tell her that, Edwin. Tell her right now."

The Chancellor's jaw hung open for several seconds, nostrils flaring, brows drawn, and he looked like he might just ram that pen through Jane's skull. But finally he turned back to the receiver.

"I'll call you later."

And he promptly hung up.

"Thank you, Ms. Dangsigger. You may go now." He laid down his pen with the utmost care, folded his hands across his desk, and fixed the pair with a dark stare. "And who are you, exactly?"

Lisbon stepped forward, marveling at how she always found herself in such similar situations. "Agents Lisbon and Jane, with the CBI. We called earlier this morning."

"Ah yes. Please sit down."

Lisbon sat. Jane didn't. She sighed. This was going to be messy. She could just tell.

She needed to talk first.

"You do realize," said Jane, first. "That keeping people waiting like that is just plain mean and borders on manipulation. Do you have obsessive/compulsive tendencies, Edwin, or is that just your way of establishing control? Control is an idol, Edwin. A harsh and untenable task master."

Lisbon pondered what her life might be like if she moved to _Bakersfield,_ got a job with the beat, maybe something nice and safe in traffic somewhere.

"You do realize," Haas said, "That that was a very important phone call from the Dean of Nuclear Medicine. Why on earth would you assume otherwise?"

Jane raised his brows. "You're having an affair with the Dean of Nuclear Medicine?"

"I'm not having an affair with anyone—"

"Oh, sure you are. Look here, you've been drawing little hearts on your note pad, while taking this 'very important phone call'. Rather old school and romantic, actually. The photos of your wife and sons are angled away slightly on your desk so they can't 'see' what you're doing. No eye contact, therefore no guilt. It's subconscious really. Human nature."

Chancellor Haas continued to glare at him a moment before turning to look at Lisbon. "What were your names, again?" He picked up his pen again, quickly tore off the heart-filled page, crumpled it and tossed it in the bin, before reaching for a new one.

"Teresa Lisbon," said Jane leaning over the desk. "That's L I S B O N. Just like the city in Portugal. And mine is Patrick Jane. Capital J A N silent E. Makes the A long."

Haas stared at him, looking ready to snap the pen in half.

"Etymology," grinned Jane. "Gotta luv it."

_Yes,_ thought Lisbon. _Traffic would be nice._

"Spelling is very important, don't you think? There are a couple of police officers in _Alameda_ who don't seem to think so. But I don't think they went to a nice university like this."

Haas grit his teeth. "Yes, Mr. Jane with a silent E. Spelling is very important."

"Haas. That's with two As, yeh? Dutch?"

"Yes, Mr. Jane. Dutch."

"Wonderful." Jane turned to her and smiled. "Your turn."

She shot him with her eyes, before turning to the Chancellor. "Dr. Haas, we're investigating a series of crimes that all appear to have a Berkeley connection."

He sighed, looked at her wearily. "And?"

"_And_…we are going to need a list of all students enrolled in the post-grad program, along with all your faculty members." She smiled sweetly.

And he smiled sweetly back at her. "No."

"I love university life," sang Jane. "I should have come here."

"And where did you go, Mr. Jane with the silent E?" Haas' smile was anything but sweet now. "Which university or college had the honour of enabling you?"

"Oh, nowhere and none. Self-made man and all that."

"Obviously."

Lisbon set her teeth. "Dr. Haas, two men have been murdered in a very short span of time, and we have reason to believe the perpetrator or perpetrators are Berkeley post-grad students. If we could just—

"Ms. Lisbon—"

"_Senior Agent_ Lisbon," she growled.

Jane glanced at her, eyes dancing. He so loved it when she got angry. It was like poking a beehive with a stick, then running when the bully showed up. Despicable, yes. Cowardly, _hell _yes, but she was _so _much better than a swarm of bees.

Haas put on a thin smile. "Yes, _Senior Agent_ Lisbon, thank you. But you must understand my position. Berkeley is a very large university, and we have been a stringent supporter of personal liberties and freedoms for over one hundred years."

"Not the freedom to commit murder."

"Has there been a murder committed anywhere on the Berkeley campus?"

"No, but—"

"Has a student of ours been murdered then?"

"Mark Mooney got his head shot off," offered Jane helpfully.

"By an overzealous police officer. Yes, I've been informed. But in _Alameda, _not here."

Lisbon leaned forward. "He was a suspect in a multiple homicide."

Hass tapped a paper on his desk. "According to the memo that was sent me this morning, he was in fact one who found a body, nothing more."

"He gave false evidence in the course of a police investigation."

"All that means, Senior Agent Lisbon, is that he is guilty of lying to a police officer."

"Twice. And that is a still crime in the state of California."

"A misdemeanor." Hass sighed. "Senior Agent Lisbon, you are asking me to suspend the Privacy Act on a shoestring. If we gave out our student list to every officer investigating every criminal offence that had the slightest connection to this facility, not only would we be able to get nothing else accomplished, we would be no better than a totalitarian state."

"Dr. Haas, a warrant is in the works as we speak," said Lisbon. "It would save valuable time if you would simply cooperate with our investigation."

"Senior Agent Lisbon, when I receive the aforementioned warrant I will immediately file an appeal with the ACLU and the Department of Justice regarding nondisclosure pursuant to the Privacy Act—"

"Sir, there is a provision for exemption of the Privacy Act in matters of Law Enforcement—"

"Which must be upheld by a civil court, under the appropriate Search and Seizure laws of California."

"The CBI is the Enforcement Arm of the Office of the Attorney General _and _the Department of Justice, Dr. Haas." And her emerald eyes flashed at him. "We_ are_ the law in California."

Five minutes later, they were leaving the Office of the Chancellor, a thick manila envelope in her hands. Jane was practically bouncing at her side. He was smiling.

"_What?"_ she growled as they trotted down the stairs.

"Oh nothing."

She ground her molars and kept on down.

He kept on smiling.

"_What?"_

"We _are_ the law in California."

"Shut up, Jane."

And they left _California Hall_ and its Beaux-Arts design, and stepped out into the afternoon sun.

"""""""""""""""""""""

Mark Mooney lived off campus, in a basement apartment under a corner store. It was not a pretty area, nor was it a seedy one, simply an average neighbourhood in an average California town. Perfect for any student, undergrad or post.

There were several unmarked police vehicles pulled up in front of the building, as well as two squad cars, one from _Berkeley_ township and the other from _Alameda._ Cho shot Rigsby a dark glance. The more precincts involved in this, the more difficult things would become. The CBI could turf anyone, but things got messy, not to mention ugly, when that happened, and this case was already ugly enough.

They stomped down the steep steps, past the freezer and hot water heater and the shelves for canned goods and paint. Cops turned as they approached, but Rigsby flashed his badge and the pair pushed their way inside. Nelson swung around immediately.

"Oh, _you _guys," he grunted. "I thought you were going home."

"No," said Cho. "Just getting started."

"You turfing?"

Several of the officers turned to watch.

"Maybe."

Nelson rolled his eyes. Rigsby shook his head, dumbfounded. Most cops weren't like this. It reflected badly on the profession, and Rigsby took his profession seriously. He put his hands on his hips and nodded at the man.

"What have you got?" he asked, certain that the standards he held were shared.

"What are you looking for?"

"Did he have a computer?"

"Yeah, Forensic boys have taken it downtown."

"Downtown where?" asked Cho. He was completely deadpan, like he was in an interrogation room.

Nelson held their stare a moment. "_Alameda._ This crime was committed in _Alameda."_

"Which crime?" asked Cho. _Completely_ _deadpan._

"Which crime? The Polley killing, of course. What crime are you talking about?"

"Maybe I'm talking about the other one, the Cambrian investment banker eviscerated in _Los Padres National Forest. _Maybe that one."

"Yeah," added Rigsby. "That's why we came up here in the first place, remember?"

"Then maybe you should turf."

"Maybe we should," said Cho.

The silence grew uncomfortable. Rigsby cleared his throat.

"Um, what about journals, daytimers, appointment books, that kind of thing…"

"Any books, actually," said Cho. "I'd like to see what this guy read."

"Yeah," added Rigsby. "If he really is into Stoker or Hawking."

"What is it with you guys and books?" Nelson asked, shaking his head. "That's what Elmo said."

"It's true," said Rigsby as Cho wandered away, looking for bookshelves and shaking his head. "You can tell a lot about a person by what they read."

"Yeah well," grinned Nelson. "Not everybody reads."

Rigsby shrugged.

"I guess that tells you a lot about a person too."

Nelson grunted. "Speaking of Elmo, you heard he chucked my Kimber into the Bay?"

"After you shot the head off a Berkeley student."

"You don't mess with a man's piece. Shows no respect."

"Have you found the kid's body yet?"

"Naw. He's fish food."

Rigsby sighed, cast his eyes around the small cluttered apartment. Wandered over to the phone. There was a notepad, several crumpled Kleenex and a prescription bottle. _Xanax _for anxiety. He hmphed. Mooney had been telling the truth about that. Snapping on his white latex gloves, he picked up the bottle, slipped it in a plastic baggie. Picked up the phone next, pressed the buttons for the phone book.

"Bingo," he smiled as a set of programmed numbers began to scroll. He bagged the phone as well.

He wandered over to where Cho was standing. There were indeed books stacked and crammed in a makeshift shelving unit. He let his eyes wander down the titles, mostly texts from his classes in the liberal arts and sociology.

"He was in Women's Studies, wasn't he?" asked Rigsby.

"Yeah," said Cho. "Lots of text books, but there's some interesting stuff here. Serious novels, award winners."

"Well, remember what Jane said," the big man grinned. "Readers are leaders."

"And then there are these…" Cho held up two hardcovers.

"'_Suffragette City: London in the 1880s'_, and "_Ripped; the Real Story of Jack the Ripper'."_

Rigsby raised his brows. "Whoa, I think we win a turkey or something."

And he pulled out his phone and made the call.

""""""""""""""""""""

Teresa Lisbon folded her phone and slipped it in her pocket.

They were sitting under a stand of large twisting oaks in the greenspace known as the _Chancellor's Esplanade_, and the sun was warm on their faces. In fact, this campus seemed to her very much like a park with trees, shrubs, flower gardens and paths everywhere, and in the distance, the spire of the Sather Tower reached for the sky.

"Well?" Jane asked. He was looking at her expectantly, propped up on one elbow and stretched out on the grass like a cat in the sun.

"They've had his phone, computer and some books sent over to the Regional office in San Fran. I've sent them over to his psychiatrist's office. Maybe he can tell them something. Not likely, but it's worth a shot."

"Books? Did you say books?"

She cleared her throat. "Just books, you know. Text books, women's books, just other…books…"

"What kind of books?"

"Jack the Ripper books," she grumbled.

"_What?"_ He held a hand up to his ear. "My ears are still ringing. Can you speak a little louder?"

She swatted him on the shoulder. "You can hear me just fine. There were several texts on Women's issues in Victorian-era _London,_ and a few Jack the Ripper books."

"So are you saying I was right?" he asked loudly. Several passing students glanced over and smiled.

She couldn't help but grin. After the heaviness of the last few months, his attempts at play were welcomed. He was undoubtedly the most resilient person she had ever met.

"Yes, Jane. You appear to be right. Again."

"Never tire of that."

"Nelson was there."

"He's a buffoon," he hmphed and leaned back onto both elbows this time, watching students. "Have they found Mooney's body yet?"

"He's dead, Jane."

"I know. Have they?"

"No." She sighed. "Grace has got the student list from the Chancellor's office, as well as the faculty list. We can talk to Mooney's prof at 4:00 this afternoon. She's also pulling a list from DMV as we speak. When we get back, do you think you can give her some names?"

He didn't respond, so she studied him. He was staring out over the Esplanade with glassy eyes, detached and distant. Locked in on his own thoughts, shutting everyone and everything else out. It was happening more and more of late, and she was powerless to stop it.

"What are you thinking?" she asked finally.

"Did you know," he said quietly. "That there were two different police forces investigating the Ripper murders? That the friction between them was one of the reasons the case was never closed. Too many fingers in one very messy pie…"

"I'll call the AG. We can take this."

"They needed focus, one single vision, one mind putting the pieces of the puzzle together."

Her heart sank. She realized he wasn't talking about the Ripper anymore.

"Or a team," she added. "One tight-knit team could have done it. One man can't always see all of the pieces."

He looked up at her. "Depends on the man."

"Maybe it depends on the team."

And he studied her for a long moment, then offered her a smile. She could tell it was an effort, but she appreciated it. He was pulling himself out of his mire, just for her. "Did you also know that there was a psychic who'd offered to help, back then?"

"With the Ripper case? Really?"

"Yep. He was refused three times, by three different offices."

"Fascinating. You are a wealth of macabre and disturbing but oddly amusing facts."

"Meh. It's my gift."

She rose to her feet. "Off to find a prof we go, Jane with a silent E." She offered him her hand. "And you see, no bad things have happened to you today."

"Thank you, Special Agent Lisbon," he said as she helped him to his feet. "But the day is still young. We can always hope."

And together, they headed back into the heart of the campus, to find the Women's Studies professor in charge of Mark Mooney and his Ph.D.

_End of Chapter 6_


	7. Chapter 7

**Jonathon Redding**

_**Chapter 7**_

Grace Van Pelt peered into the refrigerator and her dark eyes grew wide. Yoghurt, fresh sandwiches, grapes, V-8 juice in individual cans, spring water. It set her mouth watering immediately, and she realized her stomach was growling in response.

"You can help yourself, you know," came a voice, and she turned to find Mira Vierra standing behind her, arms folded across her chest. "The AG pays to keep it stocked."

Van Pelt scowled and closed the door. "Fridge isn't stocked in _Sacramento,_ and we're the central office."

The young woman smiled. "Maybe that's one of the perks of being regional. Everyone's jockeying for _Sacramento_, so they make _San Fran_ just a little bit sweeter."

"Water's fine." Grace stood up and twisted the top of the plastic bottle. "Besides, when the others get back, we'll probably head out for some dinner. Are there any good restaurants nearby?"

Vierra stepped a little closer. "Oh, they're all good around here. I could stay and help you find something, if you need..." There was something in her eye that set Van Pelt's teeth on edge.

"Oh no," she said quickly. "We can manage. We always do."

Mira Vierra looked down, bit her lip. _Damn,_ thought Grace. _Here it comes._

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." Van Pelt took a swig from the water bottle.

"Agent Rigsby…Is he… _seeing_ anyone?"

Took her time swallowing. "Nope," she said, and took another swig, suddenly wishing it were whiskey.

Vierra took a step closer and suddenly it was high school, all over again. "I mean, I don't usually get like this, but damn, he's really hot and well, you know…"

Van Pelt chugged that water bottle, the whole damn thing straight, like gin. "Yep," she said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "I know."

"So, he's not seeing anyone…?"

It took only a moment, but then again, she had been working with Patrick Jane for almost three years. Things were bound to rub off. She straightened, arched one brow.

"He doesn't like to 'see' anyone, if you know what I mean…"

Vierra's large eyes grew wide. "No, I don't. What do you mean?"

Now it was Grace's turn to step close. "He's a good lover, if that's what you're asking. A very good lover. Just ask any woman in head office. They've all had their turn with Wayne Rigsby…"

The young woman frowned. "Oh…"

"Oh yes…He's quite the Casanova. What are his key words? Contempt, Control and Excitation… That's right. A regular ladies' man."

Vierra pouted, looking down. "Oh, okay…" She turned to leave the kitchenette. "Thanks, um, for letting me know…"

Van Pelt crunched the water bottle in her grip, tossed a perfect two pointer into the recycle bin. "Anytime…"

And she was alone again.

For some reason, Grace Van Pelt did not feel victorious. In fact, she felt a little sad, and she wondered why she had done it. For in fact, Wayne Rigsby was a good man, and now a free one. And she herself was happily seeing Special Agent Craig O'Laughlin. There was no need to be catty, certainly no need to lie.

She frowned, sighed, and wandered back to the conference room, where only her computers were waiting.

"""""""""""""""""""

They did not wait long to see the Dean of Women's Studies, Patricia Henning. In fact, it was as if Edwin Haas had gone to special lengths to ensure the pair from the CBI were shown all professional courtesies and doors opened all around them like magic. If she didn't know better, Teresa Lisbon would have been suspicious.

Patricia Henning, however, was a complete professional.

"I'm terribly sorry to hear about Mark," she said solemnly. "He seemed to be a nice young man."

Lisbon nodded. "Did you know him at all?"

The woman paused, shook her head. "Not 'know' him, per se. But I did interview him three times. This was his fourth attempt at the Doctoral Program."

Lisbon glanced over to where Jane was standing. Naturally, he was looking at her books. His back was to them, as if uninterested. She looked back at Henning.

"And why was that?"

"Well," she said carefully. "I think Mark was a nice man, just not a… great student. I wasn't convinced he was Ph.D. material."

From the books, Jane began to hum happily, and suddenly the words '_stupid student'_ echoed through her mind. She ground her teeth and continued.

"Who was his dissertation supervisor?"

"Well," said Henning. "That was a bit of a problem as well. He's been through four already…"

"Four?" Jane swung around. "Why four?"

She sighed. "No one wanted to work with him. I think he had problems."

"Problems?" Lisbon now.

"Anxiety problems. He was a very nervous, anxious person. Neurotic, even. It's not conducive to serious academic pursuits."

Jane glanced at Lisbon. "Hm," he said, before turning back to the books. Lisbon had no idea what he had just meant. But then again, there was no surprise in that.

"Did you know any of his friends? Did he hang around with any of the other post-grad students?"

She frowned, shook her head. "Honestly, I wouldn't know. I'm sorry"

Jane turned slightly toward them, holding a book open in his hands. "It took him four years to gain admittance to the Doctoral Program, yeh?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"What was his proposed thesis?"

"I'm not certain he had nailed that down yet." She glanced from Jane to Lisbon and back again. "Or maybe, his ideas kept getting shot down. I'm not sure."

"Did he have a problem with women?"

"I…wouldn't know…"

"His mother died when he was eight, yeh? Did he have a problem with his mother?"

"I wouldn't know that either…"

"So why Women's Studies?"

"So why not Women's Studies, Mr. Jane?"

He shrugged. "It's just a question, Patricia."

"A question rife with implication and suggestion, Mr. Jane." She was staring at him with sharp eyes. "And you may call me Ms. Henning or Dean Henning."

He grinned at her. "There is power in suggestion, Ms. Henning."

"There is also condescension in suggestion, Mr. Jane."

"I'm always suggestive and condescending, Ms. Henning. Ask Senior Agent Lisbon."

Lisbon sighed. She was dizzy from all the politicking this afternoon. "Jane, do you have any other non-suggestive, non-condescending questions? Otherwise, I think we're done."

"No, no. I'm good."

Lisbon rose to her feet, offered her hand. "We may be in touch if we have any more questions."

"Of course."

Jane was already at the door. He swung around, eyes dancing. "Oh, wait, there is one more question, if I may, Ms. Henning?"

Now it was Henning's turn to sigh. "Yes, Mr. Jane?"

"Is there a Ph.D. Program in Criminal Science at Berkeley?"

She paused, thought for a moment. "I believe so. You'll need to contact that department."

He grinned at Lisbon. "More teachers. I'm beginning to wish I'd gone to school."

She grabbed his arm and shoved him out, closing the door behind them.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

They indeed visited the office of the Dean of Criminal Science, and those doors were also opened with little or no trouble. Dean de Havilland was most helpful, and they left with a list of post-grad students, their addresses and phone numbers. But it was getting late, the sun beginning to set behind the Golden Gate Bridge, which was visible from several buildings on campus and their stomachs were rumbling in the absence of lunch and now supper. It was time to head back.

Cho called as they pulled out of one of the Berkeley parking lots, informing them of their utter lack of progress with Dr. Emil Hamblington, psychiatrist of Mark Mooney. Naturally, the good doctor had claimed doctor-client privilege and refused to co-operate, except to say that his client was a nice young man and had been making remarkable progress on his new medication. Without direct evidence linking medical records to imminent threat, it was almost impossible for any judge to grant a warrant suspending doctor-client privilege, so Cho and Rigsby were also heading back to the downtown office.

Jane, in the passenger seat of the SUV, was busy working on his lists. Lisbon marveled at the fact that he could both read and write in a moving vehicle. Most people got carsick. Jane only got carsick – or any kind of sick – when it suited him.

He folded up his papers and shoved his stub of a pencil behind his ear.

"All done?" she asked.

"Yep," he said.

And nothing else.

She pursed her lips, watching him from the corner of her eye. His arm was up against the window of the car, eyes glassy and unfocused, but she knew that wasn't true. He was focused, alright, but not here, not now, and most certainly not on this case. And once again, she had to give him credit. For a man, it was amazing how he could multi-task.

"I think I'd like to talk to Douglas Rayer," he said finally.

Lisbon smirked, happy to have him back. "Which one?"

"The real one, the psych major one. That one."

"And why?"

"I just want to meet him."

"Do you think he ties in with this somehow?"

"Somehow?" He shrugged. "_Obviously."_

"_Obviously._ Right. Anything more specific?"

"Just a hunch."

"Just like going to the pier last night was a hunch."

"Yeh. Like that."

"Where you inexplicably stumbled upon our only suspect, almost got your throat cut, and your head shot off – twice I might add – and ended up in the Bay? That kind of hunch?"

"Yeh. That kind of hunch." He smiled at her. "Only drier."

"No."

"No?"

"No. We're supposed to be meeting the others back at the office."

"Oh. Okay," he sighed. "Never mind…" And gazed off as the campus grew small and golden in the rearview mirror.

Lisbon gripped the steering wheel. "Why do you do that?"

He looked back at her innocently. "Do what? You said no. I said never mind. Ipso facto. Cause and effect."

"No. When you don't get what you want, you sigh or you go all puppy-dog eyes, or you smile and beg all the harder. I raised three brothers to manhood, Jane. You should know by now that those stunts don't work with me."

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up to the corner store and the upstairs apartment of Douglas Rayer, graying PhD student at Berkeley. Jane smiled as she knocked.

No answer.

She knocked again. "Mr. Rayer? Agent Lisbon from the CBI. We would like to ask you a few more questions…"

Still no answer.

"Sorry, Jane. He's probably in class or something."

"Perfect." And he slid a piece of wire from his pocket and turned towards the door.

"No," she growled. "No Jane, no. Not while I'm standing here. No way."

"Oh hush, woman. Go call Grace. Make sure there's a new pencil waiting for me. My fingers are getting all cramped up from writing with this one…" The door made a soft bump and click, and he smiled at her.

"And what if there's a dead body in there, huh? What if the real Douglas Rayer is laying on the floor in a pool of his own blood and you just waltz in for an illegal search?"

"Then we say the door was open."

"The door wasn't open."

He pushed. The door swung open. "Yes, it was. It just needed some help."

She peered in and, seeing no dead body lying in a pool of blood, gave him a quick nod. "Don't touch anything."

"Promise." And he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

The apartment of Douglas Rayer was nice. Academic and messy but nice, and he resisted the urge to head straight over to the bookshelves, where literally hundreds of books lined the walls. Rather, he made fists with his hands inside the pockets of his jacket and forced his eyes to take the room in. Nine foot ceilings, large windows, old hardwood on the floors. Turkish throw rugs and hurricane lamps. Personal photography on the walls, as well as prints of famous paintings. Van Gogh, Picasso, Degas. African printed fabrics on the couch, chairs and bed. All it needed was Pink Floyd and some weed and it would be a student's paradise.

He ambled over to study the pictures on a table by the window. A man, obviously Rayer, with a woman. Rayer with another woman. Rayer with children. Rayer with a teenaged girl. Just the girl now at a birthday party. At her graduation. Rayer now on a camel. Rayer in a whitewater raft. Healthy, happy, normal. Nothing. He headed over to the books.

The man was a psych major, so there were tomes upon tomes of psych text books, abnormal psychology, clinical psychology. One entire shelving unit devoted to psychology textbooks. And classics. The _Odyssey_ and _the Illiad_ mixed in with Dumas' _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and _Beowulf, Jane Eyre_ and _Moby Dick._ _I-Ching_ and the _Tao of Pooh._ _A Brief History of Time_ and _the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy._ New classics as well as non-fiction, and Jane was beginning to get the impression that this was a man who not only collected books, but read them. Quick mind, open and curious. Intelligent, amused, boundless. Something was missing, however, and the puzzle was incomplete. He moved on to the next shelf.

_Helter Skelter, In Cold Blood, Silence of the Lambs_. He swallowed, feeling his pulse begin to quicken. Still, perfectly natural, he told himself. The world of psychology was a mixed-up and dark place, for it was the study of the human mind, which was itself a mixed-up and dark place. Books on Stalin, books on Nazis, books on Asian torture techniques and books on Incan sacrifice. Two entire shelving units devoted to killers and killing. It was disturbing but in the same way that reading Louis L'Amour didn't make one a cowboy, reading crime novels didn't make Douglas Rayer a criminal. He sighed.

Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps, as Minelli had said recently, he was seeing conspiracies in everything, losing his grip on what was real and solid and—

He froze.

It was tucked in between _American Psycho_ and _The Complete History of Jack the Ripper,_ and his heart thudded in his chest. He glanced around, making certain she wasn't in the room, wasn't watching, and he reached for it, realizing with a detached thought that his fingers were shaking.

He slid it out and held it for a moment.

"_The Tyger: Collected Works of William Blake."_

It didn't belong in this section. In fact, if it had been placed next to Dante's _Inferno_ or More's _Utopia,_ he probably would have skimmed right over it, wouldn't have given it a second thought. But here, in this section on killers and killing, it stood out like a beacon, meaning something only to him.

Meaning everything only to him.

He opened it, making sure there was no inscription on the first page, no happy face drawn in red pen. Nothing, of course. He was the very definition of paranoid. It was a classic and it had been placed on the wrong shelf. Nothing more. Nothing more.

He read the first few lines.

_Tyger Tyger Burning Bright_

_In the forest of the night._

He knew it off by heart. It was killing him, bit by bit, the cryptic poetry of it, the very images of tigers and lambs and red smiley faces blending together in his mind. If it didn't end soon, he was quite certain it would drive him mad and he would be trapped in its world of blood and fire, heaven and hell, forever.

He slid it back in its place, glanced around the room again, half-expecting to see a smiley face, dripping down the wall. But nothing. Of course, nothing. He was being paranoid.

He looked back at the book.

'_They'_ wanted to publish.

'_They'_ were totally into it.

_The Silence of the Lambs, Tyger Tyger burning bright, the lamb the victim, the tiger the killer, the same mind had created them both…_

Red John's network, here in Berkeley.

A hand on his arm, and he almost jumped out of his shoes.

"Anything?" asked Lisbon, and she frowned at him. "You okay?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling like a puddle. "Yeh. Yeh, fine."

She didn't believe him, he could tell. But she wouldn't pry. She was good that way.

"Did you find anything?"

"We should go."

"Jane?" She peered in closer, her green eyes round and serious. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He could distract her. He needed to, so he tuned ever so slightly, allowing his eyes to wander over the shelves of books. She stepped over, studied the wall of death, drew a deep breath.

"Okay…" she said, lips pursed. "We need to leave. Now."

"Yeh."

And he pushed past her and strode out the door to the apartment. She stayed behind for only a moment before following.

_End of Chapter 7_


	8. Chapter 8

**Jonathon Redding**

_**Chapter 8**_

It was dark when they arrived at the regional office in _San Francisco,_ and the smell of fresh coffee and pastries hit them like a wall. It reminded her that they were operating on one meal so far this day, and while cops of all sorts could survive on the proverbial coffee and donuts for days on end, it was not conducive to creative, critical or productive thinking.

Lisbon dropped the Berkeley files on the desk, and Van Pelt, Risgby and Cho looked up. They were all tired, that was obvious.

"Okay," she said sharply. "We need a warrant."

"I'm on it," said Van Pelt as she swiveled in her chair to face her computer. "For what and for whom?"

"Douglas Rayer. We need to check out his apartment."

Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances. Lisbon raised her hand, cutting them off.

"I know. You were already there. But you were just checking on him, not on his stuff."

"Stuff?" asked Rigsby, visibly relieved. "What kind of stuff?"

"Books," offered Cho, and Lisbon nodded. He was perceptive. "Same as Mark Mooney's, right?"

"Worse."

"Sounds like you already know," grinned Rigsby.

"Don't ask."

They all nodded. If it ever came to light that there had been an illegal search of Douglas Rayer's apartment, any and all findings would be immediately disqualified as evidence. They needed to tread softly, yet surely, here.

"Alright. The warrant's in the works," said Van Pelt as she swung around. "And I'm ready to cross check the DMV records with Jane's list, if it's done."

There was no response. Lisbon sighed. There was an unopened box of yellow HB pencils sitting in the middle of the conference table, along with a pad of paper. He hadn't noticed any of it. He was sitting at the table, staring off into space, flipping the stub of a pencil through his fingers as if it were a magic coin or a deck of cards. Thinking.

"Jane…?"

"Hm? Yes?"

"The list of names? Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes? Is it done?"

"It's done," he sang, and sent it sailing over in the form of a paper airplane. Grace snatched it out of the air, unfolded it.

"Wow," she said. "That's a... lot of names…"

He shrugged. "Taking into consideration all the variants of the names themselves, their roots, their translations into other languages, their antecedents from other languages, their meanings in both English and other languages, common misspellings—"

Lisbon leaned forward, patted his sleeve. "We get the point. Good job."

His mouth smiled. His eyes did not.

Grace sighed and began typing.

"So?" said Cho, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. "Books?"

Jane sighed now, and Lisbon realized that they were all doing a lot of sighing. He looked at Cho. "When you were at Mark Mooney's, you found books, yeh?"

"Yeah, sure," said Cho. "Not a bad selection."

"Anything…untoward?"

"Untoward?"

"Creepy," Lisbon translated.

Rigsby dropped his chin in his hand. "You mean, other than those Jack the Ripper ones?"

"Yeh," said Jane. "Other than those."

The two agents exchanged glances yet again.

"Well, like I said," said Cho. "There were a lot of decent books."

"Anything by Blake?"

"Blake?"

"Yeh," said Jane. "William Blake. Collected Works, Poems… you know, Tyger, Tyger Burning Bright? That sort of thing?"

Lisbon narrowed her eyes at him. Cho merely shrugged.

"I don't remember. But there were a few award winners."

"Yeah," said Rigsby. "Like book club stuff."

"Book club?" said Jane slowly, rolling the words over on his tongue. He leaned back in his chair. "Book club, book club…"

Cho looked at him. "Book club?"

"Oh damn," said Lisbon. "A Murder Book Club?"

"That is a common thread," said Van Pelt, over her typing. "These guys and their books."

"Not just books, Grace. Words. Names. Spelling puzzles." Jane hmphed. "They think they're clever."

"They _are _clever," grumbled Cho.

"Yeah. They're PhD students from Berkeley," added Rigsby.

"A Berkeley Murder Book Club?" asked Lisbon, incredulously. "_Nuh_-uh. I don't think so…"

"Murder by the Book," said Cho, completely deadpan.

"Don't start," she growled.

"Think about it," said Rigsby. "A post-grad thesis club, all bent on studying the motives, methods and murders of Jack the Ripper."

"And acting them out?" Van Pelt now, from her computer. "That's sick."

"But fascinating," added Jane. "That's why Mark had a hard time floating a thesis. No supervisor would approve."

"You were thinking about this from the start," said Lisbon.

"Composing," said Jane. "It's frightening the melodies that hum around inside my head."

"You should have said something."

"Meh. Composers do their best work alone."

"But it takes two to make a harmony. Otherwise it's all just melody."

He raised his brows, impressed with her logic.

"Make sure that you remember that, Mozart." Lisbon leaned back now, glancing around at her team. "Okay, so Mark Mooney was in Women's Studies. How would that play into this 'Post-Grad Thesis Murder Club'?"

"Well, said Jane, "He did have books on women in Victorian England, yeh?"

"Yeah," echoed Cho. "He did."

"Maybe there was something personal. You said his mother died? That's why he was in foster care?"

"You're thinking she didn't just 'die'?" asked Lisbon.

He looked over at Van Pelt. "Grace?"

"It's not in the file Agent Vierra gave us. But then again, most childhood records are sealed. Just a sec…" She minimized one screen, pulled up another, began to type.

"So what faculties would have an interest in a Ripper case?" asked Rigsby.

"Women's Studies," said Cho. "Psychology, Criminology—"

Lisbon gasped. "That's why we got the list from Criminology!"

From his pockets, Jane pulled out yet another list. "The names and addresses of all the post-grad criminology students currently registered at Berkeley." He slid the paper her way.

"So we've got Mooney from Women's Studies, Rayer from Psych, and now…" Lisbon counted the names. "Thirteen possibles from Criminology."

Jane shrugged, offered her a little smile. "It's a start."

"We have Mooney's phone records now," said Rigsby. "And the autodial list from his phone. We could see if there are any that match up?"

"Do it," said Lisbon. "Check for Rayer too. And any other numbers that keep coming up."

"On it," said Rigsby. He grabbed the list and pulled a laptop his way.

"Good work, people," said Lisbon quietly. "Good work."

Jane smiled at her again, and suddenly, she felt very, very proud of her team. There was the quiet hum of work for a few minutes, the sound of coffee being sipped, mice being clicked and the steady, hypnotic tap, tap, tapping of a pencil on the table. Like a metronome. Or a heartbeat. Keeping them focused, keeping them sharp. And for once, she realized, the harmonies were mutual.

"Eureka,_"_ said Van Pelt, with a little gasp. "I think I know why Mark Mooney was interested in the Ripper case…"

They all looked up.

"Says in the file that he went into foster care because his mother died. Well, his mother did die, but she was actually murdered. She was a prostitute and she was murdered. The perpetrator was never caught. The case has never been closed."

Silence descended for a moment as they all took that in.

"That was twenty years ago," said Cho quietly.

"Way to warp a kid," added Rigsby.

"And that's why men have been targeted," announced Lisbon.

They all looked at her now, expectantly. She took a deep breath.

"Statistically, crimes against women are closed far less often than those against men. The ratio is actually staggering. Mooney was testing that theory."

"Or making a point," added Grace.

"But we don't know for a fact that Mark is the killer," said Jane.

"_Was,_ Jane," corrected Lisbon. _"Was_ the killer."

"Have they found his body?"

"_Jaane,"_ she growled, warning.

"Well? Have they?"

She didn't answer. There seemed no point.

"Regardless," she continued with a huff. "It appears that this killer _or killers_," she glared at Jane, "Are trying to prove that justice moves much more swiftly for men than for women."

"It does," said Jane. "And that's why you're the boss."

She cocked her head, curious.

"Justice," he smiled. "Of all the idols, it's a winner."

"Alright then, we need to check out Douglas Rayer. See if there's been a crime against a significant woman in his life that has not been closed."

"Or mishandled," added Jane.

"Or mishandled."

"On it," said Cho.

"But I don't get something…" It was Rigsby now, looking up from his computer. "Why target men if you're hoping to prove that theory. I mean, if justice moves more swiftly for men, then you're theorizing that you will get caught. That's kind of the point, right? It's as if you're saying, you kill women, you don't get caught, but if you kill men, you _do_ get caught. You're presuming then that you're going to get caught."

They looked at him. He cleared his throat.

"Am I missing something? I mean, it's not gonna get you anywhere, except jail. And it's certainly not get your thesis published or anything."

Jane nodded. "Mark mentioned that 'they' wanted to publish."

"That's what you do with your doctoral thesis, right?" Van Pelt now.

Lisbon sighed again, dropped her chin in her palm. "Maybe they don't think they're going to get caught."

"Some people are just cocky," said Jane. "Their presumed cleverness makes them cocky."

Lisbon smirked. "Takes one to know one."

He shrugged, smiling. It was true.

"But they practically gave us the names," sighed Cho.

"No, the names meant something only to Jane," corrected Lisbon. "None of us would have caught that."

Jane shrugged again. It was true.

Van Pelt's computer began to make odd pinging noises, and she wiggled in her chair.

"Ooh. Okay, we got some DMV names for Elizabeth Stride…"

Jane rose to his feet, crossed the floor to lean over her shoulder as names began to scroll. "Oh yeh, I liked that one. That one was good. Oh, that was a good one too…"

Grace looked at Lisbon. "We have corresponding names for seventy-four on Jane's list. Only fifteen are within a five hour radius of Berkeley."

Lisbon grimaced. "Thirteen criminology students, fifteen potential victims. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

"Hey," said Rigsby. "I got a match from Mooney's phone records. Looks like he was in contact with a J.R. Piper. Number 6 on the Criminology list."

"J.R. Piper…" muttered Jane. He glanced around the room, spied the box on the table and his eyes lit up. "Ooh, pencils!"

Lisbon shook her head. "Grace, make that _two_ warrants—"

Suddenly, there was a knock at the glass door of the conference room. Mira Vierra popped her head inside.

"Um, excuse me, but we've just got a call…"

Teresa Lisbon waved her in. Wayne Rigsby smiled brightly. Mira Vierra looked away. Grace Van Pelt suddenly felt very bad.

"There's been a murder that might fit your pattern." She looked down at a file in her hand. "A used car salesman in _Weston Ranch, Stockton. _His body was found behind a local gym. Throat slashed twice, but no mutilation. It might not be related, but the brass wants you informed."

"Damn," growled Lisbon. "That means they've upped their game…"

"And the next victim will be tonight," added Cho.

"Tonight?" asked Vierra. "What, what are you saying?"

"His name?" asked Jane. "What was victim's name?"

"Um…" she glanced at her file. "Walker Libby."

Jane sighed.

Grace's dark eyes were large. She turned them up to Jane. "You are _so_ psychic, it's not even funny…"

"He's psychic?" asked Vierra out loud.

"Yeah," said Rigsby.

"No," said Cho.

Lisbon moved over, grabbed the list that Jane had written, all the combinations of names based on Elizabeth Stride that he could possibly imagine. As Grace had said, there were many. Only one was circled. In pencil.

_Walker Libby._

She stared at him.

"It was my favourite," he said, rather sadly. "It flowed."

Vierra furrowed her brow. "So what does that mean? Do you want this or not?"

"Yes," said Lisbon. "We want it. And if these perpetrators act according to type, there will be another murder tonight. Grace, have you generated a list for the next vic? What was her name?"

"Catherine Eddowes," muttered Van Pelt, and she turned back to her screen. She had already entered Jane's list for possibilities, had been waiting for the cross check to be completed. "Wow," she said. "There are a hundred and twenty-five matches… But looks like only six within a five hour radius of Berkeley…"

"Print it." Lisbon turned to Vierra. "Okay, I want six squad cars at six residences immediately. Twenty-four hour protection until I say so, got it?" The young woman nodded, moved over to Van Pelt's side, cell phone in hand. "Rigsby, go with Vierra. Check out this Walker Libby in _Stockton. _See if he had any ties to Berkeley or if he was just the lucky name."

"Absolutely," said Rigsby, straightening and smiling like a schoolboy.

Vierra smiled as well, but as Van Pelt noticed, it was not nearly as bright.

"Jane, did you circle any of the names for Catherine Eddowes?"

He moaned.

"Grace, let me see that sheet."

Grace did. One name was circled. Lisbon turned to him.

"Is this what you think?"

He moaned again.

"Jane, I'm not asking you to predict the next victim. Just tell me if this name is your favourite."

"Ye-es," he said, slowly and rather seriously. "Edward Casey, Casey being the diminutive form of Catherine. But that's not saying—"

"-and I'm not inferring. You, Cho and I will head there first, that's all. There will already squad cars guarding each of the others."

"Actually," said Jane. "I'm rather tired. I'd like to go back to the hotel if it's all the same to you."

There was suddenly silence in the conference room as they all stopped and stared at him.

"You're…_tired?"_ asked Lisbon.

He made a face, waved a hand around his ear. "All the ringing," he groaned. "It's getting me down. Giving me a headache. And I think I feel a chill."

She stared at him. "You think you feel a chill…"

"_What?"_ He shrugged his shoulders. "See? Can't hear you. Ringing."

"We're gonna…um, leave now…" said Rigsby, and he sidled to the door. Vierra cast a bewildered glance at the agents, then the consultant before following him out. Van Pelt steeled her jaw and turned back to her computer, wishing she could somehow turn back time, even just a little.

Lisbon took a menacing step forward. "Jane, so help me, when we drop you off at the hotel, you will go up to your room and not leave it until I get back, do you understand?"

"I understand." He nodded, most solemnly. "I do."

"You swear that you're just going to rest."

"Scout's Honour."

She narrowed her large eyes once again. "You were _never_ a boy scout."

"It's the principle of the thing. Like a handshake. Or Christmas."

She studied him. He yawned. Stretched. Rubbed his vested belly. Smiled sleepily.

"Alright," she said finally. "But if you go anywhere—"

"I won't. Bad things happen to me in San Francisco."

Fifteen minutes later, they were dropping him off on the street in front of the Super 8 motel. It was nearly three in the morning, and the sky was very dark, but the street lamps and neon signs lit the night as if noon. As he trundled out of the SUV, she rolled down her window.

"Straight to your room, got it?"

He smiled again, yawned, stretched.

"Go."

Backpedaled once, twice, threw a little wave.

"_Now!"_

Disappeared through the doors of the lobby to the Super 8.

The SUV pulled away from the curb and it was quiet for several moments in the front seat.

Cho slid a glance her way from the driver's seat.

"Do you really think he's going to his room?"

"Not for a minute," she growled, and the SUV roared off into the night.

_End of Chapter 8_


	9. Chapter 9

**Jonathon Redding**

_**Chapter 9**_

Edward Casey was a forty-six year old Business teacher at Patten University, a faith-based school in _Oakland._ He lived with his wife and children in a modest ranch bungalow with large pine trees in the front. There was a squad car in his driveway, two unmarked cars on the street in front of his house and now a black SUV on the grass. It was two thirty in the morning, his wife was sitting woodenly on the couch, cradling a cell phone and vainly trying to hold back tears.

Edward Casey wasn't answering his phone.

And Lisbon realized that in all likelihood, Edward Casey wasn't coming home again.

"Mrs. Casey, Agent Cho and I are going to head over to the University. Do you have any idea where he might be, other than his office?"

She took a deep breath. "Sometimes, they have movie nights with the students… I'm not sure where that would be. On campus somewhere. Um, he might be in the library too, with the students. The faculty is encouraged to help that way…"

Lisbon nodded, passed her a card. "Thanks. Here's my number. If he calls or answers his phone, call me."

The woman took it, dropped it onto the pine coffee table. Like a dead leaf in autumn.

Lisbon sighed, nodded to Cho, and together, they headed out.

"""""""""""""""""""""

Weston Ranch was a subdivision of_ Stockton_, a modest but beleaguered community with the highest forclosure rate in the entire country. The drive in from _San Francisco_ had been a strained one, with Wayne Rigsby desperately making small talk and Mira Vierra deliberately keeping it so. He was a _San Diego_ native. She was not. He had extensive experience in the arson and bomb units of the forces there. She did not. He was clearly an eager and open book. She was anything but.

And so, it was at two thirty in the morning that they rolled into _Stockton,_ navigating their way to the athletic club known as the _Stockton Edge._ Red and blue lights from the squad cars lit their way and a gurney was being loaded into an ambulance as they pulled up.

"Det. Sergeant Germaine Brigg," said a tall man with grizzled mutton-chop sideburns. "You the CBI?"

"Wayne Rigsby," said Rigsby, offering his hand. "Agent Mira Vierra. We'd like to see the vic before you pack him up."

"Sure thing." Brigg waved at the ambulance attendant, unzipped the black forensic bag that wrapped the body.

Rigsby nodded, noticed as Vierra turned away after only a heart beat.

"Thanks," he said. "Has the, uh, has the wife been notified?"

"Yeah."

"And the body was found where?"

"Over there. Behind the club." And together, they began to walk toward the building.

"Who found his body?" Vierra this time. She seemed to have composed herself.

"Jogger."

Rigsby paused mid-step. "What's his name?"

"Uh…Nils Franklin."

"Nils Franklin? _Nils?"_

Brigg shrugged. "People got all kinds of names."

Wayne Rigsby was a fairly smart man. He was no Patrick Jane, to be certain, but to be successful in the field of law enforcement, one had to have more than brute strength on one's side. Wayne Rigsby was strong, determined, stubborn, linear and loyal, but was also fairly smart.

"Nils Franklin... Frank... Nilson? Nelson?"

He glanced at Vierra. She glanced back, not understanding. He looked back to Brigg, brow furrowed.

"This Nils Franklin, he still here?"

"Uh, yeah. Giving a statement to my partner, over there…"

Hands on hips, Rigsby turned, scanning the crowded parking lot. There were many people here now, reporters, cops, bystanders and onlookers, but there, talking to a plainclothes officer, long grey ponytail pulled back under a sweatband, was Douglas Rayer.

Rayer looked up, and for a split second, their eyes met.

Rayer bolted, knocking the cop over and into the crowd.

"Freeze!" shouted Rigsby and was after him like a shot.

The streets were dark and slick with condensation, and they shone like ice under streetlamps and the moon. For an older man, Rayer was fit and fast, but Rigsby was faster, and within minutes, he launched himself in a classic football takedown, tackling the older man in a clatter of arms and legs, garbage cans and pavement.

In one rather smooth motion, Rayer rolled and swung and Rigsby gasped, a line of red appearing under his shirt.

A strange knife glinted in the moonlight.

"You see, you _see,_" as Rayer began to laugh. "If they were women…if they were _women_…"

And he sliced the air between them, once, twice, three times.

Still on the ground, down on one knee, the agent pulled up his revolver, cupped it in his bloody palm. "Put it down, sir."

"IF they were women, you'd still be sipping coffee in your _Sacramento_ office."

"That's not true, sir."

_"Yes it's true! _My Katie, coming home from the gym." He swept his arm out over the street. "A gym, just like this. She was only nineteen!"

The Glock did not waver. "I'm sorry, man. Just put the knife down and we'll talk."

"No one found out who did it. No one cared. Because she was only a woman! Little more than a girl!"

"Put it down!"

"We're proving it, too. The fact that you're here proves it. Young girls die, you stuff your face with donuts, but kill an investment banker or a college prof and you're all over it like a dirty shirt."

"Please put it down. This is not going to bring your daughter back."

_"Nothing_ is going to bring my daughter back, son. My wife left me a year after she died, so I lost my daughter, _and_ my wife. It's not right. It's not fair."

"Please, sir. I can't help you if you don't put the knife down."

"I suppose you want me to let it go, right? That's what the other cops said. "Just let it go, Mr Rayer. Let it go.'"

He tightened his grip on the blade. "Well, I'm not going to let it go. You're just going to have to man up and make me, son."

And with a strangled cry, Douglas Rayer lunged forward and a shot rang out, sending his body backwards into the street.

Rigsby blinked. He hadn't fired. He half-turned to see Mira Vierra standing over him, her revolver cupped in both hands, eyes wide in shock. He let out a deep breath, and then another, shook his head as he looked back at the man on the street.

In a growing pool of his own blood, Douglas Rayer was weeping.

Rigsby moved over to his side.

"Katie, my little Katie…"

Rigsby felt his heart crumble inside him. He reached down, placed his hands on the man's shoulders.

"Don't move," he said softly. "The ambulance is right down the street."

"My lovely little Katie, my baby…"

A gurgle and a gasp, and then, he was still.

Wayne Rigsby swallowed, feeling like a sinking stone. Part of the job he never got used to, hoped he never would. With a sigh, he rose to his feet, holstered his weapon.

Vierra hadn't holstered hers. In fact, she hadn't moved.

He reached out, lowered her arms, and she released a long, shuddering breath.

"Hey," he said. "It's okay."

She nodded, her breathing heavy as the adrenalin worked its way through her system. Finally, her dark eyes flicked over him. "You…You're bleeding…"

He looked down. His shirt was soaked with red.

"Just a scratch. I'm okay. Thanks though."

The street was filling up with people. Other officers, Det. Sergeant Brigg, onlookers. He sighed again as he turned back to the body of Douglas Rayer, Ph.D. student of Berkeley, and he wondered how many more Berkeley students would be willing to die to prove a point.

He'd lost his daughter and his wife. Mark Mooney had lost his mother.

Death changed things.

Death changed people. And for some reason, he thought of Jane.

He reached for his phone.

""""""""""""""""""

"Hi. No, no I'm resting. Yes, at the hotel. I'm not lying. Why would I lie? Oh, you know, making lists. That lovely young agent got me a whole new box of HB pencils. Yellow ones. She's a lovely woman. You should ask her out. Dead? Oh dear. That's not good. I would have liked to talk to him. Oh, yes, that's very sad. No, I haven't heard from Lisbon. Why would I hear from Lisbon? Of course she trusts me. Well, good night, Rigsby. See you in the morning. Yes, you take care of yourself too. Good night."

He slipped his phone into his pocket and sighed. Rigsby, of all people, was worried about him.

It was sweet. Inconsequential, but sweet, and he forgot all about it as he turned his eyes to the house.

He had known the moment he saw the name, the very moment the Dean of Criminology had given him the list. J.R. Piper. J. Ripper. If it wasn't a pseudonym, then it would be a remarkable coincidence. Either that, or his imagination had finally gotten the better of him.

That wouldn't really have surprised him.

What _had _surprised him, however, was the address.

1514 Union Street, _Alameda._

He was back in _Alameda._

He had paid the cab and it had left him facing the dark house of J.R. Piper. It wasn't anything like he had expected, and he chastised himself for such melodrama. The homes of sociopaths were notoriously average. Craggy old houses up on deserted hills were fodder for movies and novels alone. As he stood under the lamplight, rubbing his arms in the damp fog of very early morning, he studied the wartime two-storey and wondered what he could possibly have been thinking.

It was in one of the lower income neighbourhoods of _Alameda, _sandwiched between affluence and comfort. Two blocks west lived large stucco residences with triple car garages and swimming pools in the back yards. Two blocks east was one of the yacht clubs, and even from here he could smell the water. The house was easily seventy-five years old, two storey plus and attic, and it was situated next to a square four-plex that had seen better days. There was a four-foot chain link fence around the property and an alley between house and apartment that was almost too narrow for a body to fit through. Although the alleyway was creepy, it was not at all the image of a serial killer's lair.

It was the book, he knew it for a fact. He needed to see if Piper had a copy of that damned book. Beyond that, everything else to follow was a blur, a vague notion of a piece in a puzzle that had been almost ten years in the making. The book was only one very small piece, true, but he had once thought it his and his alone. A secret code, Red John's gift to him. He had been wrong about that, and he so hated being wrong.

The house was dark, no lights on inside or over the outer doors. Casing a place like this was a snap. Two locks on the front door, each of which easy to jimmy on their own but wasting precious time in combination. The windows were old, easy to pry, easier to break, but he had a sneaking suspicion that J.R. Piper lived with his mother, and giving an old lady a coronary would not be so easy for Lisbon to overlook. The back door - now _that_ was a possibility, and with a glance both ways down the street, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed into the narrow alley between the buildings.

It smelled of trash and dog feces and led into a very small back yard, again surrounded by the short chain link fencing. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now and they swept the yard, noticing holes in the grass, bones and tennis balls.

_Damn,_ he thought to himself. Dog.

Not likely anything big however. A four-foot fence would not succeed in holding in anything larger than a Cocker Spaniel, and so he hopped it easily and trotted up the steps to the back door. He peered in the window. Dark. Tested the doorknob. Locked. But simple to pick. The book was likely no more than three minutes away.

His heart was racing.

And like the rush of cold water, he realized that he was in the grips of an addiction, not so different than drugs or alcohol or sex. His own idol, Revenge, had him cold, could make him do anything it needed. Indeed, anything it wanted. He liked to think he was in control, but he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a puppet and he would do anything, sacrifice anything, on the altar of Red John. Red John knew about sacrifice. In fact, he was a master. Rebecca the emotionally-scarred lover, Dumar Tanner, Todd Johnson. Yes, Red John knew all about the importance of sacrifice. If he entered this house and he got caught, he could very well be letting a serial killer walk. They would likely fire him from the CBI. It didn't surprise him overmuch to see how little that bothered him. It was a sacrifice, one that he had made before, would make over and over and over again.

One day, it would catch him.

But not today.

With a deep breath, he reached into his pocket for the wire.

There was a slide and click of a weapon being cocked. A Kimber, from the sound of it. All steel The one all the SWATs use.

"Hey there Elmo," came a rough and familiar voice. "You're a hell of a long way from Sesame Street."

_End of Chapter 9_


	10. Chapter 10

**Jonathon Redding**

_**Chapter 10**_

A dog started barking as soon as they entered the house.

"_Who's that?"_ cried a voice from a far room. _"Frankie? JohnJohn? Issat you?"_

"It's me, Ma! Go back to sleep!" And Det. Sergeant Nelson shoved him into what was obviously the kitchen. It was small, as would be expected in a seventy-five year old home, and it reeked of beer, bacon and cigarettes. The lights were still out and Jane's eyes were wide as he tried to take it all in. Nelson's appearance had been a wild curve ball in his plan, and right now, as the stocky man pushed him into a chair, the Kimber still locked on his head, his mind was spinning with old theories and new ideas. Truth be told, none of it made any sense now and _that,_ he realized, was a very strange and unpleasant sensation.

There was the ticking of claws on linoleum and the shuffle of hard-soled slippers, and Nelson leaned into him, lowering the Kimber to his side.

"Say anything and I'll shoot your head off, got that?"

"Yep," said Jane. "Got it."

"I'll just clean up the blood and she won't remember a thing in the morning."

"Understood."

Suddenly the lights came on in the kitchen.

"Oh _god,"_ moaned a woman. She looked to be over seventy and was obviously a smoker. Her voice was like sandpaper. The words came out 'Oh _gaad.'_

She shook her head. "Not another one."

Nelson waved her off. "Just waiting for JohnJohn, Ma. Go back to bed."

"I left you supper in the fridge." She eyed Jane up and down. "Not enough for him, though."

"Oh, it's alright," Jane smiled. "Lost my appetite a few years back. Nice doggie."

There was a Jack Russell terrier at her heels. It was growling like a badger.

"His name is Jack. Saucy Jack." She looked like she needed another cigarette.

"Of course it is."

"He doesn't like you."

"It's mutual," said Jane.

"JohnJohn thought it up. You a friend of his?"

Jane rolled his eyes toward Nelson, whose Kimber was thankfully hidden behind his windbreaker. Nelson glared at him. He looked back at the woman.

"No, I'm a colleague of Frankie's." He sure hoped Nelson's name was Frank. He'd never actually gotten the man's first name. Figured. The one time he hadn't paid attention.

"You don't look like a cop."

"He ain't no cop, Ma."

"Frankie's right." Jane shook his head in agreement. "I ain't no cop." Anything to diffuse the situation. Keep Momma happy. And Frankie.

"Well," the woman made several attempts to turn. "No loud music. Not this time. Got that, Frankie?"

"Got it, Ma. Go to bed."

"I'm goin'. I'm goin;." And she did, in fact, finish that turn and shuffle back the way she had come, the little dog ticking at her heels. "I need a smoke…Where the hell's my smokes…"

There was silence in the little kitchen for several moments.

"Stand up," said Nelson.

Jane's mind was spinning with possible scenarios. Obediently, he stood.

"You don't need to do that. I just came to apologize," he lied as the cop spun him around, pulling handcuffs from behind his back. "I shouldn't have thrown your gun into the bay and I'm terribly sorry."

"Piece," grunted Nelson. First one wrist – snap - then the other – click. "Weapon or piece. Cops don's say 'gun.'"

"Ah. Sorry. Again." Nelson pushed him roughly back down onto the chair. _"Gun_ just sounds more intimidating."

Nelson stared at him with deadened eyes, and suddenly, Jane knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man had every intention of killing him. He cleared his throat.

"You see, I got your address from the Joint Law Enforcement Database and thought I'd just come and, you know, make things right between us. Man to man. Like professionals."

"Like professionals, huh?" The Kimber reappeared. Nelson was looking at it like a lover.

"Oh look, I'm glad you got it back," offered Jane. His hands were locked securely behind his back. It was impossible to reach the phone in his pocket.

"This ain't the same one," said the detective. "I got lots of 'em."

"That's nice," said Jane.

"They never did find that one. Still at the bottom of the Bay. Thanks to you."

"Ah." He swallowed, marveling at how life just kept turning around and around. "So, ah, now that I've apologized, I think I should be letting you get to that supper your mom made for you. What a lovely lady, by the way. A real firecracker. My colleagues are anxious to leave first thing in the morn—"

Nelson grinned. "Naw, we're waiting on JohnJohn."

"Oh, I shouldn't really. It's late. You're tired, I'm tired..."

"I said we wait."

Jane nodded, thinking and thinking some more. He had never been good picking cuffs. He vowed to change that once he was free of them. He was running out of options.

"Oh, while we're waiting, may I have a cup of tea?"

Nelson smiled. "With what JohnJohn's gonna do, it's better that you don't."

"Lovely." Jane swallowed again, flashed a doomed smile. And they sat quietly in the kitchen for a while longer, until there was a bump and click of a back door.

A dark clad shape stepped into the room and into the light.

"Oh. Hello," said JohnJohn.

And he smiled.

""""""""""""""""""""""

Patten University was small compared to Berkeley, with the average class size being twelve, and it boasted perhaps one tenth of the number of buildings. But the campus was similar, even at night, with Beaux-Arts design mingling with Spanish, twisted oaks and California palms dotting the greenspaces. The Dean had been notified, was on his way, and a custodian had given them access to Edward Casey's office, but nothing inside had been touched. It wasn't surprising.

Casey would not be murdered here.

So she and Cho stood outside, breathing in the damp night air. The custodian was still with them, as both he and the Dean had insisted on giving them access to every building on campus if needed. A forensics team had been called, as well as the K-9 unit, but right now, as they waited, the night was calm and quiet, with only a small smattering of students wandering across the grounds.

Rigsby was on the phone.

"He's dead? Damn. No, no, I understand. It just would have helped put some of these pieces together… You what? Why? Yeah, I don't believe him either. Okay, call Grace. Get her to pull up Jane's phone server, see if they can determine a location from your call. I'll try calling too… Right, good work."

She folded the phone and slipped it into her pocket.

"Rayer's dead. He was in _Stockton."_

Cho looked at her. "He found the body."

"Yep. Rigsby needs stitches."

"Cool." Deadpan.

"He doesn't think Jane's at the hotel."

"Really." Completely deadpan.

She slid her eyes to look at him, the hint of a smile tugging into one cheek. "You're really good at that."

"I know."

And they stared out into the night, knowing that without some sort of lead, it was impossible to know where to start.

Another group of students was crossing the green, laughing.

She glanced at Cho. He raised his brows. She pushed off toward the students.

"Excuse me," she called after them. There were two guys, two girls, and they all paused as she approached. She flashed her badge. "Teresa Lisbon. CBI. May I ask you a very strange question?"

They exchanged glances, nodded. "Sure."

"Have you seen anything weird on campus tonight?"

She thought she would need to elaborate, explain herself, anything, but immediately, the four burst out laughing.

"Excuse me?" she asked again, her smirk sliding back onto her face. "What's so funny?"

"Raccoons!" howled the first student.

"Raccoons?"

"Yeah, raccoons!"

She felt her heart sink.

"It's crazy! Becky is from Tennessee and she's never seen a raccoon!"

"Yeah, that's like the raccoon capital of the world!"

"Not a single one!"

"Right…raccoons..." She sighed, felt Cho's energy drain away behind her.

"Yeah, she has to come to California to see raccoons!"

Suddenly, she looked up. "Where… did you see this raccoon?"

"_Three!"_ exclaimed one of the students. "We saw_ three_ tonight, just over there behind the Auditorium!"

She didn't even need to look at Cho this time. Together, they bolted from the group of students and sprinted across the grass toward Faith Hall Auditorium.

There were several lights illuminating the front of the building, but the back was dark, so they pulled weapons and pocket flashes and slowly headed into the shadows.

They could hear the hiss and trill of the animals as the thin beams of light swept across the base of the building, and they could see movement on top of movement in the darkness. Lisbon swallowed and cast her light toward it.

"Oh god," she moaned.

They had found the body of Edward Casey. But apparently the raccoons had found him first.

"""""""""""""""""""

"Not basements. I really don't like basements. Bad things happen to me in basements…"

"Shut up," the cop growled over his shoulder and he shoved again, sending Jane staggering toward the narrow door, hands still cuffed behind his back. He was actually grateful for Nelson's arms on him as they pushed him down the steep stairs towards the bottom. He would have fallen otherwise, and that would not be a good thing given this unexpected turn of events. No, he needed more than his proverbial feet under him if he was to survive this night.

The basement was finished in a decor consistent with men living with their mother. Red carpets, wood paneled walls, big screen TV, bar fridge, ugly reclining chairs. But it was very narrow, clearly not the full basement, and as he regained some sense of balance, he could see a door to the right, with a sign posted on it with clear tape.

"Forensics Unit. Do Not Enter."

He swallowed again. This was quickly going from bad to worse.

The man named JohnJohn pushed past him, carrying a black satchel and pulling a key from his pocket. As he moved toward the door, Jane watched him, marveling at how genetics could allow one brother to look like Nelson and the other to look like Piper. Different fathers, most likely, but still. John R. Piper was perhaps thirty, with thick dark hair and light blue eyes. In fact, to Jane, he looked rather feminine, being slender of build and fine of bone, and he had a pouting mouth and high cheekbones that would be the envy of any supermodel. No, JohnJohn Piper was as beautiful as his brother was not, and it was also then likely that he was clever, articulate and cultured. And while Frank was dangerous, it was JohnJohn who was deadly.

As the younger brother opened the door and disappeared inside, Jane wondered with a detached sort of thought, what genetics would have thrown if he had had a brother.

With a shove between the shoulders, Nelson bullied him inside and closed the door behind them.

The room was dark, and he knew JohnJohn was indulging in a moment of power. It smelled of formaldehyde and bleach, and a fan was blowing cold air in from outside. Unlike the outside, however, the room was not damp – forensics units needed dry air. Moist air grew bacteria and assisted decay, both enemies of forensic evidence. It also smelled of concrete and rubber and the echoes in the room reminded him of stainless steel, and so, when JohnJohn finally flicked on the lights, he was not surprised to see that he had been right. Concrete walls and floor. Large shelving unit on the far wall containing jars and bottles and vials and trays. There was a section that looked like it could have once been a shower stall, with stainless steel walls and a drain in the middle of the floor.

And of course, in the middle of the room, a table. A stainless steel table with a rubber mat underneath.

For some reason, he felt lightheaded.

_Could be fear,_ he reckoned. Didn't feel it often. Never really had. Not even as a kid. He had never been that careful with his personal safety and he wondered if that was a sociopathic glitch. It would explain a lot. It would have been interesting to talk to Douglas Rayer about it.

"I'm delighted to finally meet you," said JohnJohn as he began unpacking his satchel. Gloves, gauze, hemostats, laid them carefully on a metal stand by the table. "He's told me so much about you."

"He?" Jane glanced back over his shoulder at Nelson. The bloodshot eyes were inches from his own.

"Not him, silly. Our mutual friend." Knife, oddly shaped and shining. "My mentor."

Once again, Jane was grateful for Nelson's arms, for his knees had suddenly turned to jelly. He swallowed.

"He said you'd be good. I have to admit, I'm impressed." For some reason, Jane noticed the young man's hands. Long, slim, elegant as he pulled item after item from the bag. They were mesmerizing. "Frankie doesn't like you. He thinks you're insane, so I really didn't know what to think. I didn't think you'd catch on, but you did. Right from the start. Good job, Patrick. Well done."

Quietly, with those long elegant hands, JohnJohn pulled out a book, a very old, very small hardcover. Laid it on the tray with the others. Continued unpacking.

Jane stopped breathing.

It was then that he realized, with another detached sort of thought, that he was speaking with a pupil of Red John's and that he was not completely paranoid nor delusional and there was indeed a network operating in the State of California. Once again he was right, although Minelli would be loathe to admit it.

"He thinks very highly of you. In fact, I was surprised when he agreed to this. He's rather protective of you, you know. But he said, 'if you can catch him, you can have him.' And look, here you are…"

His mind was spinning, his breath leaving his body never to return. There was the book, a second book, just feet away. Given to this child, this puppet, by Red John. He needed that book. The way an addict needed a fix, he needed that book.

He couldn't die in here, in this room, this lonely, pathetic little room underneath a kitchen that smelled of beer and bacon and cigarettes. This was not the way it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be Red John, not some lackey, some grad student, some minion. There was no justice in that. And while justice was most certainly not an idol for him, it was admittedly a good one, and suddenly, for the first time in a rather long time, Patrick Jane began to feel angry.

"This is a stupid game," he said abruptly. "You're not Jack the Ripper and I'm not Mary Jane Kelly and I really had hoped you were rather smarter than that."

Finally, JohnJohn turned to study him, an amused almost beatific smile on his smooth, sculpted face. "What did you say?"

"I said that this is a stupid game, but to be honest, I think what I meant was that _you_ are stupid. You're not worthy of this. Neither of you. Pathetic buffoons, the pair of you."

Nelson's grip on him tightened, even as JohnJohn's expression grew unreadable, but Jane didn't care.

"Red John has wasted his time. You are no more worthy of his legacy than you are the Ripper's."

JohnJohn cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

"Mary Jane Kelly doesn't equal Patrick Jane. That's a pathetic leap and you should feel ashamed of your lack of imagination. I have a dozen names that are better. Two dozen, maybe more. Honestly, if you're going to try to make something of yourself, then at least do it with style."

"But you fit perfectly for Mary Jane Kelly."

"Bah. Do not."

"Mary—"

"Means bitter, blah blah boring. Face it, JohnJohn, I'm not bitter. I'm focused."

He seemed to consider this. "Fair enough. My mistake. But Kelly fits you like a glove. Listen Patrick, Kelly comes from Kell, meaning Celtic, a fierce warrior people. It also comes from Ceilidh, which means celebration. Therefore, the name Kelly means lively and aggressive, a scrapper. And you, my friend are all of those, in spades. Don't you see it?"

"Kindergarten onomastics. You should have tried a little harder," said Jane, rolling his eyes. "Besides, it's not my turn."

And that's when JohnJohn Piper smiled and pulled something else out of his satchel. It was small and bloody red and contained within a clear forensics baggie. Jane steeled his jaw.

"Oh, I'm afraid to disappoint you again, Patrick, but it _is _your turn. It is completely and utterly and only your turn."

It was a kidney.

_End of Chapter 10_


	11. Chapter 11

**Jonathon Redding**

_**Chapter 11**_

She growled and folded her phone, slipped it back into her pocket.

Forensics was on the scene, and the campus of Patten University was flashing red and blue from the squad cars spread across the grass. In fact, it reminded her very much of the night on the dock, complete with cops and ambulance but minus the water. She was grateful for that, but somehow, couldn't shake the feeling that now, like then, Jane was still not safe.

Bad things happened to him, and not just in San Francisco.

"He's not answering," she fumed to Cho at her side.

"He's probably in trouble," he said, echoing her thoughts. "He's freaky that way."

"Yeah," she snorted. "I should just shoot him. It would put half the criminals in California out of business. Make my life a hell of a lot easier."

He grinned.

She waved the ranking officer over.

"We're heading out," she said. "Have the teams report to the San Fran office when they're done."

"Yes, ma'am."

And she turned on her heel and headed to the SUV, Cho trudging dutifully beside.

"""""""""""""""""""

It was a kidney.

"And I have a letter too," said JohnJohn. His voice had taken on a lilting, musical tone. "To send to that sweet little kitten you all call 'Boss'. _Boss!_ Isn't that perfect? I couldn't have arranged this any better. It's poetry, really it is. History is completely repeating itself…"

Jane was tired now. Tired of all this. He should have listened to Lisbon, gone back to the hotel room, worked on something, anything, but this. As JohnJohn carried his treasures to the shelving unit on the far wall, his eyes slid to the tray and the old copy of _The Tyger_ sitting amidst the blades.

He wanted that book. He wanted it with every fibre of his being, even handcuffed as he was and held in place by a buffoon cop gripping his arms like a terrorist and whose Kimber was now pressing awkwardly into his back. Even with JohnJohn bagging a kidney and a tray full of knives and surgical tools sitting only inches away and a stainless steel shower stall to wash blood off a body, even with all of that, he realized with a detached thought, that all he wanted was that book.

He shook his head.

Suddenly, drunken Santas and their obsessions paled in comparison to his.

From inside his pocket, the cell phone rang. It rang and rang and rang.

From the far wall, JohnJohn turned slowly. He was wearing an apron, long and plastic and gently stained. The kind butchers use.

"Frankie," he said in a soft voice. "You should have removed that."

"He can't talk to no one," grumbled Nelson.

"Still. It's not a good idea. Would you please put the music on? _La Traviatta_ tonight, I think."

"Ma said no music tonight."

"Oh, dear. Mother."

_Fascinating,_ thought Jane. The feminine younger brother dominant to the macho older one and both of them subject to a tyrannical seventy-year old matriarch. All of these men had issues with 'the fairer sex.' Too bad Rayer was dead. They all needed therapy.

"Yes, I can," he said after a moment.

"Can what," growled Nelson.

"Use my phone."

"No, you can't."

"Sure can. CBI technology. They have a GPS chip implanted in every phone." He rolled his eyes up to Nelson. "All the SWATs have 'em too."

"Frankie…?" purred JohnJohn.

"That was the coded ringtone saying they're on their way. There're ringtones for everything these days. This app, that app, the _we're-on-our-way_ ringtone, the _time-for-donuts_ ringtone. It's mind-boggling. That's why I like paper and pencils. It's so much simpler."

Nelson tightened his grip, almost pulling Jane's arms out of their sockets from behind. "He's lying. Do it now. You got all day to play but I gotta work in the morning."

JohnJohn tilted his head, blue eyes glittering, and Jane held his breath. Actually, it was difficult to breathe anyway. The grip Nelson had on his arms was beginning to hurt like hell. Not a bad analogy, all things considered.

Finally, the tall, slim man turned to pick up a blade, ran a finger along its edge, and smiled.

"Yes, Frankie. You're right. I believe he's lying too."

And purely by instinct, Jane shrunk back, leaning away from JohnJohn as the young man began to move toward him. But leaning away from JohnJohn meant leaning into his brother, and Nelson had him good, that damned Kimber pressing into his back…

"You remember what he did to Mary Jane Kelly, surely…" purred JohnJohn. "They weren't even certain she was human, after what he had done to her…"

The Kimber…He saw it in his mind's eye, the size and shape of it, the grip, the texture and weight of it in his hand…

The blade was moving closer. "Everything put back in the wrong place. Kidneys as a pillow, liver between her feet. Carved up like a ham at Christmas."

He could do it. He had watched the Indonesian acrobats that had traveled with the show, had learned their routine by heart. Of course, he was a little older now, but surely just as nimble…

"But it's a shame, what I will have to do to your face. You have a nice face, Patrick. There won't be much left for your little kitten to recognize."

He intentionally pressed back into Nelson now, feeling the metal with his spine, willing the metal to seek his hand, his hand to find it, the hand and the metal were one…

"I'll make sure it's quick, Patrick. I'm good at this now. I'm sure you'll feel it, but not for long. No. Most certainly, not for long…"

He would only get one chance. It would have to be perfect. Otherwise, he would be pork chops for the dog's dinner.

The cell phone rang again, surprising even him. Perfect.

"See? I told you," he said. He took a deep breath. "Just like the SWATs."

And in an instant, he dropped all his weight into Nelson's arms, swinging his feet up and thudding them into JohnJohn's chest, sending the beautiful man flailing backwards into the surgical tray. Both man and instruments clattered to the concrete floor.

Nelson almost went down too as Jane's weight suddenly pulled him off balance, but as he struggled to regain it, he let loose his hold, a move which the consultant had been banking on. His hand found the Kimber, snatched it from the larger man's belt even as he himself dropped to the ground. Swiftly, like a pro, he slipped the cuffed wrists over his feet and rolled to his knees and scrambled like hell toward the far wall.

He released a shuddering breath and looked down. His heart was pounding in his head but there was a gun in his hands.

He hadn't actually thought it would work, but there it was. A gun. The Kimber. All steel. The kind all the SWATs used.

Nelson was straightening up, dead eyes locked with his, so he raised the weapon in the cop's direction. There was a brief tremor of his hands and he hoped Nelson hadn't seen. JohnJohn was rising too, his preternatural calm unshaken, but it was all Nelson now, slowly, menacingly reaching for his ankle, ripping a bolt of Velcro, pulling yet another weapon from it's hiding place. He raised it to aim at Jane's head.

Jane swallowed. "My, but you have a lot of those guns…"

"Never, _never,_ mess with a man's piece."

"I'll remember that. I-I will."

"Don't shoot, him, Frankie. That's not how it's done."

"Shut up, JohnJohn. It's my turn."

"I thought it was _my _turn," moaned Jane. The weapon in his own hand was shaking now. In a Mexican standoff with Nelson, he had no illusions of who would draw quicker. He realized there was another way.

He swung the Kimber toward JohnJohn, heard Nelson growl.

"So, Frankie," he said, as if nothing else in the world was going on. "If I'm Elmo, does that make you Oscar? 'Cause I always liked Oscar."

"Shut it."

"I think you're more a Snuffalupagus type of guy, deep down. I mean, really deep down. Really deep. Really down."

"I should'a taken your head off, not Mooney's."

"Oh, yeh, about that. Why did you shoot Mark Mooney, anyway? He wasn't going to hurt me. I liked him, even if he was a stupid student. He was trying."

_"Shut. Up,"_ growled Nelson.

"Frankie?" asked JohnJohn. "You killed Mark?"

"Oh yes," offered Jane, helpfully. "Blew his head clean off. Poor kid. Sent me for a swim too. We were talking, engaging in a little mutually edifying hypnotherapy and _BAM_, into the water we go. Honestly, Frankie, that was most unpleasant."

"I said shut up, Elmo."

"It's Tickle-Me Elmo. They haven't made the Shut-Up Elmo yet."

"Frankie, how could you?"

"He was gonna talk, JohnJohn. I had to shut him up. This is your game, not mine. I'm not going to jail 'causa your little experiment. I got a career to think about."

"Frankie, this is terrible news."

"Ah, sibling dynamics. Gotta luv 'em," muttered Jane. He was tired of all this. "Listen, boys, all I want is the book. Give me the book and I'll leave you two and your lovely mother in peace. And her little dog Ripper too."

"The book." JohnJohn's eyes grew bright. "Of course, you'd want the book."

"I do," said Jane, and he waggled the gun for emphasis. He wasn't sure why he waggled the gun. It just seemed like the thing to do. The chain of the handcuffs rattled as he did so. "Just give me the book and I'll go."

"I don't think so," said Nelson.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Damn," said Jane.

There was a sudden banging on the upstairs door.

"_CBI! Open the door! Now!"_

Immediately, a little dog began to bark.

"Rigs_by!" _He drew out the last syllable. "Rigs-_bay!"_

And there was a bang and a loud crash and Jane could imagine the door shattering in many splintering pieces. He had seen it often enough. The man was a tank.

Upstairs, the little dog was going wild, and they could hear the shrieking of a very old, cigarette-raspy voice.

"Rigs_bay!" _Jane shouted again. "Down here!"

"Frankie?" Sharp, shiny knife in hand, JohnJohn gazed at his brother. "Frankie, he wasn't lying. What are we to do?"

There was the stomping of big feet on wooden steps.

Nelson looked at his brother. "Sorry, JohnJohn. This was your game. I ain't paying for this." And slowly, he raised the Kimber to his temple. "Take care of Ma."

"Oh dear," said Jane and he made a face.

"Frankie?"

The roar of the Kimber, and Jane flinched again, shutting his eyes tightly so as not to sear the image into his mind forever. He waited until there was the thump of a body on the concrete floor before opening them to a wall sprayed with red. Like too many other walls he had seen, the red began running down in straight lines toward the floor.

Like abstract art.

Jane felt himself detaching once again as he tilted his head and stared at it. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing the buffoon had ever done, and the urge crossed his mind to reach out and draw a face in it.

It _was_ art.

_Tyger Tyger burning bright_

Todd Johnson had indeed burned bright.

It was all art.

There were fists pounding on the door, bringing him swiftly back to reality.

Jane glanced over at JohnJohn, beautiful child, twisted man, staring at the lifeless body of his brother on the floor. It looked as if all the life were draining from him, too, and Jane felt an uncharacteristic pang of sympathy. He wondered how he himself would feel once Red John lay dead at his feet.

He shook his head and with a sigh, tossed the Kimber to the concrete floor.

Slowly, ever so slowly, JohnJohn turned glittering blue eyes toward him.

"Oh, bad move, sport," he purred, and pulled the blade up between them. "Remember. It's still your turn."

"JohnJohn, no. There's a great big policeman at the door."

"Only my friends and family call me JohnJohn."

"Put, put, put it down..."

"You can call me Jack."

"Rigs_baaaaayy!"_

JohnJohn rushed and the blade came down and the door bumped once, twice, shattered inwards, but JohnJohn was on him and Jane tucked into a ball as yet another gun barked and barked again in the echoing basement that doubled for a Forensics lab on Sesame Street and there was a weight on him and a warmth flowing down his neck and finally, thankfully, quiet.

Someone pulled the weight off him.

For some reason, he wanted to stay curled up, safe and sound, wrapped inside a world of art and blood and muppets but someone was patting him, shaking his shoulder.

"Jane? Jane, are you alright?"

Jane blinked and looked up into Wayne Rigsby's worried face.

"Ah. Rigsby."

"Jane? Are you hurt, buddy?"

Jane looked at the blood seeping down the collar and arm of his jacket, shrugged.

"Nope."

"You sure?"

"Yep. I think that's JohnJohn's…"

"JohnJohn?" Rigsby straightened, shaking his head and holstering his piece. Behind him, Mira Vierra looked on, dark eyes wide.

"And that, is that Nelson?" asked Rigsby, looking at the mess on the wall.

"Used to be."

"Wow."

"Rigsby?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

The big man grinned. "You're welcome."

"You know, I always liked Bert," Jane said as he pushed himself shakily to his feet. "He was his own muppet, what with the turtlenecks and the bottlecaps and the pigeons. He wasn't afraid to be himself."

He stepped over JohnJohn, deliberately did not look at the mess that was Nelson, scooped up the book from the pile of instruments on the concrete floor.

"But don't tell Ernie," he said. "You know how he gets."

And with a smile, he slipped the book into his pocket, just as Teresa Lisbon stormed down the stairs and into the room.

Her great green eyes flashed at him.

"It's a long story," he began.

"We've got all night," she growled.

"Would it help if I told you it was my turn?"

"Not in the least."

"I think I'll go wait in the car."

"Good idea."

And he slipped past her and up the stairs. He threw a little wave at Mrs. Nelson-Piper, sitting in shock on a kitchen chair, puffing what looked to be her third cigarette in the last five minutes. The little terrier was sitting beneath her chair, growling at him and so he stuck his tongue out at it. He passed through the shattered back door, down the steps and through the narrow alley to slip quietly into the SUV, with it's light flashing from the windshield. He settled himself, all alone, in the very back seat to wait and think.

With the book tucked neatly in his pocket.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

The regional office of the CBI, _San Francisco_, was packing up for the night, as the case was officially closed. Donuts were passed around, statements were recorded, agents filed reports before heading over to the Super 8 to pack for the trip home to _Sacramento._

Mira Vierra was pouring herself a second cup of coffee in the kitchenette when Grace Van Pelt slipped into the room, empty water bottle in her hand.

"Hey," she said.

Vierra swung around. "Oh, hey. Ready to head back?"

"Oh, almost. We just have to get our stuff, you know. At the hotel."

"Sure." Vierra smiled, looked down at the steaming mug in her hands.

Grace took a deep breath. "Um, listen… about Rigsby…"

Vierra looked up.

"I, um…Oh, _geez_, um…"

"Yes?"

"Okay, I was lying earlier. About Wayne Rigsby. I was lying."

"Oh?"

"He's…he's… he's a really great guy."

Vierra frowned. "But why would you lie about something like that?"

Van Pelt puffed again. "Because we were a thing, okay? We were a thing, but it's not allowed in the same unit, so we had to call it off, and we're okay with that, really we are, because our careers are important to both of us, but I, um…I…"

She ran out of steam. Vierra waited patiently.

"So, um… I lied. I don't know why I did it, but I did. And I want you to know that I'm sorry and that Wayne is a really, really great guy and that he deserves to be happy, and…" She steeled her jaw. "And I think you could make him happy."

Vierra held her gaze for several moments, quiet and unreadable.

"Thank you," she said finally. "I kind of figured that out pretty quickly, though. You're not a very good liar."

"Oh," said Van Pelt.

"So, just to be sure… we're good?"

"Oh, yeah," said Van Pelt. "We're great."

"Great. 'Cause we're going out on Saturday. He's driving up from Sacramento. My parents have a beach house on the ocean."

"Nice," said Van Pelt.

"So," Vierra smiled at her. "See you around."

"Sure," said Van Pelt.

And Vierra strode out of the room, leaving Grace Van Pelt fuming in the centre of it.

She stood there for several moments.

"I am _**so **_a good liar," she grumbled, and she crumpled the water bottle in her fist and tossed it, a perfect two pointer, into the trash.

""""""""""""""""""

It was dawn over _San Francisco_.

If there weren't songs written about that very thing, there should have been, for it was glorious. The eastern sky purple and red and pink, the western water reflecting it in all manner of colours, and the orange Golden Gate Bridge, carving it all in two.

Lisbon and Jane stepped out onto the sidewalk, outside the regional HQ, waiting for Cho to bring the SUV around to the front.

He had scared her tonight.

His lies were a part of who he was, that was no surprise. In some twisted way, she supposed that he thought he was protecting her, but then again, she knew him far too well to think him altruistic. He had one agenda and he would do whatever necessary to accomplish it, personal safety be damned. It was _his_ idol, she knew this, and he served it with every waking breath. And of course, she had hit the nail on the head the other night - it was ultimately about self. Patrick Jane had lost him_self _long ago, and the battle to rebuild an identity was built on a new and grisly foundation. But this case was not a Red John case. It was a routine case involving a serial killer – not their usual fare, but not uncommon in Serious Crimes. It was curious that he would go to such extremes for something as relatively insignificant as this.

Something else was going on inside him, something very deep, very private and very terrifying, and she had no clue what it was.

And that, of all things, had scared her.

She took a deep breath.

"So, did you know that Nelson was involved from the beginning?"

"Hm? Oh, absolutely not. That was most surprising."

"But you knew J.R. Piper?"

"Oh. It was just the name. I mean, how easy was that? John is still the number one name for male children in America, and the real nickname for John is always Jack. An odd nickname to be sure. It's not shorter or sweeter, as most nicknames usually are, but that is one of the wonderful mysteries of nomenclature. And the R – just take that and bump it into the name Piper and with all the names we've had to deal with on this case, well, it was a no-brainer."

"Right. No brainer."

"Mrs. Nelson slash Piper was abandoned by two husbands, leaving both sons angry and objectifying. They lived a generalization - all men are scum and all women are victims, and while Frank lost himself in a powerful and power-driven police sub-culture, JohnJohn was more artistic, needing to find some venue to express his frustration. It wasn't too difficult to find others who shared their viewpoints. It's all linear and pedantic after that."

"Right. Linear and pedantic."

"Besides, with Nelson on the force, it was certain that they wouldn't get caught. Not with a buffoon cop buffooning up the investigation."

"And Aniston was murdered in the State park… why?"

"Oh, to get me involved, naturally. It was simply a glorified puzzle, and I am, after all, the best puzzler in the room. Or the state. Or the country."

She frowned. He hadn't looked at her. Hadn't sent her the smug smile, the sly glance that would normally accompany such a remark. He wasn't basking in it. Simply said it and left it alone. No, something was still off.

Perhaps, that scared her most of all.

"So, you sure you're okay?"

"Oh yes. Yes. Quite." He offered her a little smile now, hands shoved as they were in his jacket pockets, and he rocked a little on his heels. "Tired, you know."

"Right."

"_Truly._ Tired."

The streets were turning gold in the early morning light.

"'Cause, you know if you had gone to sleep like you'd promised…"

"Yep. Should'a, Would'a, Could'a." He sighed, looked out onto the streets. "But you're right. If I had gone to bed, things would have been quite different."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Uh-huh. And how so?"

"Well, it was still my turn. They would have come after me sometime."

"We could have protected you."

"Oh, I know."

"You should have said something. You need to trust us."

"I do trust you, Lisbon. All of you. Implicitly. You have, as they say, my back."

She leaned forward. "Hard to have your back when we don't know where it is."

"Meh," he grinned sheepishly, changing the subject. "Maybe if I had gone with you, I would have got to see some raccoons…"

"Yeh," she grinned. "They were cute as buttons. Bloody, hissing, snarling buttons."

The dark SUV pulled over to the curb, Rigsby and Van Pelt already inside. She grabbed the passenger door, swung it open. He made no move to get in.

"Jane? You're standing on the sidewalk."

"Oh, I want to walk to the hotel."

She stared at him. "You're joking, right?"

"No. It's a beautiful morning, I'm still a little hyped on adrenalin. The walk will do me good. Clear my head, you know."

She glanced into the car at Cho behind the wheel. The man said nothing, merely gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. She looked back at Jane.

"You know, for some odd, bizarre, crazy-ass reason, I believe you. You really have no other agenda, no cunning plan or underhanded motive?"

"Really. No. I just want to walk."

"Okay, it's only six blocks to the hotel. We'll meet you there in twenty minutes. Got it?"

"I do."

"You sure you're okay?"

He smiled sadly.

She stared at him, felt her heart break all over again. It would never be in one piece as long as he was in her life.

"Alright then. I'm trusting you." And she climbed into the passenger seat and the vehicle drove off, leaving him standing in the early morning sunshine.

He watched it disappear into the empty streets, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the book.

No inscription, no red smiling face. Nothing. Just the collected works of William Blake.

Just another book.

With a sigh, he tossed it aside into a trash container on the side of the road, shoved his hands into his pockets and began to walk.

He was mad.

Not angry. Crazy. Insane. Dancing on the brink of utter madness. He'd been there once before, needed to wrap his head around the very idea that he might be there once again. The detachment, the paranoia, the intuitive leaps into empty space. Minelli had been right. He was seeing conspiracies in everything. Red John was one man. There was no network. There was no conspiracy. He was being driven inexorably mad by his addiction, and was seeing serial killers in every slip and shadow. He would surely lose this game if he succumbed yet again. No, he needed to stop, to rethink, to redress.

He had only gotten two blocks before a shape stepped out of the shadows cast between the buildings.

It was Mark Mooney.

Jane paused, glanced around.

It was early, not yet six o'clock in the morning, and the streets were for the most part, deserted. A few cars in the distance, no pedestrians, the golden glow of sunrise giving everything a surreal air. Mark Mooney, a dead man not dead, was standing in the entrance to an alley, blood dried on his face and neck and matted in his hair, and a good part of his right ear was missing.

Jane reached down, pinched his own wrist.

"Ow," he said.

He took a deep breath, looked up.

"Mark," he said slowly. This time, there was truly no one around in case he needed saving. "You're looking remarkably…alive…"

Mooney stepped forward, waved a hand around his ear. Jane flinched, waiting for knives. "Yeah, I'm feeling alive, too. Alive and, and good, you know. Sore, but but good."

"Good," said Jane. For some reason, his voice was an octave higher than usual.

"No, _really_ good. It's like I can think clearly for the first time in years."

"Really?" asked Jane.

"Yeah." The young man nodded. "It's like that bullet put me right, you know. Made me whole. Put my brain back together, the way it should be. No anxiety, no panic, no fear."

"Wonderful," said Jane.

"So, uh, I just wanted to say, you know…" Mooney looked down, shuffled his feet. Jane waited for the gun, or the knife, or the club or spear or whatever, but nothing came. Just words. "I just wanted to say thanks."

Jane blinked. "Thanks…"

"Yeah. You listened to me. Even back in _Big Sur_, you heard me. You understood about the noise in my head. And then, on the pier, when you talked about the water…it's like you looked into my soul, you know, right into my very soul…"

"Yeh," said Jane, lightheaded. "Sure."

"So I'm going to give up the program. The PhD and everything. It wasn't for me, anyway. It was all JohnJohn's idea. I don't need him anymore. I'm going to go try my hand at surfing. Or marine biology. I love the water, but you know that. The sound of the waves, the harmony of the ocean…"

"Yeh," said Jane.

"But I wanted you to have this." He reached inside his hoodie, pulled out a book.

Jane's heart stopped.

"JohnJohn gave it to me. He said it was important. He said if I understood what it was saying, then I'd have a kickass thesis. I guess I don't understand. So, I thought, maybe you would."

He passed it into Jane's hands.

"Well, I better be going. I'm taking the bus to _Santa Monica_. Great waves there, man. And lotsa fish."

"Yeh," said Jane. "Bye."

And with a little wave, the young man turned and disappeared down the deserted street.

Jane looked down at the book in his hands.

_Just throw it away_, he thought. There's nothing here for you. It's all paranoia and conspiracy theory and mind games and crap that leave you like an addict, miserable, strung out and crashing but desperately needing more.

But his fingers trembled as they opened the cover, flipped the flyleaf, smoothed the paper.

"_Dear Mister Piper,_

_Enjoy your freedom. Find your art. Change things._

_Yours truly, _

_Jonathon Redding"_

Signed in red pen, with a red smiley face.

Jonathon Redding. Red John.

He stood for a very long time before allowing himself to breathe.

He glanced around the street. No one was watching. No one was there.

The book in his hand was real.

He wasn't mad.

Not quite.

Not yet.

He slipped the book in his pocket and smiled, and set off again, in the direction of the Super 8.

_**The End**_


End file.
